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THE 



POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



HOWITT, MILMAN, AND KEATS, 



COMPLETE 



IN ONE VOLUME. 



i 



PHILADELPHIA: 

THOMAS, COWPERTHWAIT & CO. 

No. 253, MARKET STREET. 
1840. 



'V 



X 



^^% 



PREFACE. 

The Editor of the volume now offered to the pubUc has found 
his task one of some dehcacy and difficulty. 

In selecting from among the recent poets of Great Britain two, 
whose works had not been hitherto presented collectively to the 
American reader, to be published with a new edition of Keats, it 
was, of course, his object to give the preference to those which, 
would be most acceptable to the public — most popular. He chose 
Mary Howitt and Henry Hart Milman ; and in doing so, obeyed 
the dictates of his own judgment as to their merits, compared with 
those of their contemporaries ; and he believes that, considered 
with reference to richness of imagination, fertility of invention, 
grace and elegance of diction, and the interesting character of the 
subjects which they have chosen for their various poetical works, 
they will bear comparison with any of the living British poets. 
Milman is in the classical style. His chaste and beautiful com- 
positions remind one of a Grecian temple, towering towards 
Heaven in the severe majesty of its just proportions ; while those 
of Mrs. Howitt, redolent of middle age lore, and rich in catholic 
associations, have rather the semblance of some venerable Gothic 
cathedral, 

" With storied windows richly dight, 
oheddin<T a dim rehgious light" 

upon the kneeling devotees below. Each has a peculiar beauty, 
such as may render them counterparts to each other, and not 
inappropriately, it is believed, are they grouped opposite to each 
other in this volume. 

The many editions already published of Keats's works have suf- 
ficiently attested his popularity. His reputation has been con- 
tinually advancing since the period of his lamented death. 

No pains have been spared to render the respective collections 
embraced in this volume complete and accurate ; and it is hoped 
they may prove acceptable to the public. 



(3) 



i 



THE 



MARY HOWITT. 



MEMOIR OF MARY HOWITT. 



Mary Howitt was born at Coleford, in Glouces- 
tershire, where her parents were making a tem- 
porary residence ; but shortly after her birth they 
returned to their accustomed abode at Uttoxcter, 
in Staffordshire, where she spent her youth. The 
beautiful Arcadian scenery of this part of Staf- 
fordshire was of a character to foster a deep love 
of the country ; and is described with great ac- 
curacy in her recent prose work, " Wood Leigh- 
ton." By her mother she is descended from an 
ancient Irish family, and also from Wood, the ill- 
used Irish patentee, who was ruined by the selfish 
malignity of Dean Swift, — from whose aspersions 
his character was vindicated by Sir Isaac New- 
ton. A true statement of the whole affair may be 
seen in Ruding's "Annals of Coinage." Charles 
Wood, her grandfather, was the first who intro- 
duced platina into England from Jamaica, where 
he was assay-master. Her parents being strict 
members of tlie society of Friends, and her father 
being, indeed, of an old line who suffered perse- 
cution in the early days of Quakerism, her edu- 
cation was of an exclusive character ; and her 
knowledge of books confined to those approved 
of by the most strict of her own people, till a 
later period than most young persons become ac- 
quainted with them. Their effect upon her mind 
was, consequently, so much the more vivid. In- 
deed, she describes her overwhelming astonish- 
ment and delight in the treasures of general and 
modern literature, to be like what Keats says his 
feelings were when a new world of poetry opened 
upon him, through Chapman's "Homer," — as to 
the astronomer, 

" When a new planet swims into liis ken." 

Among poetry there was none which made a 
stronger impression than our simple old ballad, 
which she and a sister near her own age, and of 
similar taste and temperament, used to revel in, 
making at the same time many yonng attempts 
in epic, dramatic, and ballad poetry. In her 
twenty-first year she was married to William 
Howitt, a gentleman well calculated to encourage 
and promote her poetical and intellectual taste, — 
himself a poet of considerable genius, and the au- 
thor of various well-known works. We have rea- 
son to believe that her domestic life has been a 
singularly happy one. Mr. and Mrs. Howitt spent 
the year after their marriage in Staffordshire. 
They then removed to Nottingham, where they 



continued to reside till about twelve months ago, 
and are now living at Esher, in Surrey. 

Mary Howitt published jointly with her hus- 
band two volumes of miscellaneous poems, in 
1823; and, in 1834, she gave to the world "The 
Seven Temptations," a series of dramatic poems ; 
a work which, in other times, would have been 
alone sufficient to have made and secured a very 
high reputation : her dramas are full of keen per- 
ceptions, strong and accurate delineations, and 
powerful displays of character. She afterwards 
prepared for the press a collection of her most 
popular ballads, a class of writing in which she 
greatly excels all her contemporaries. She is also 
well known to the young by her " Sketches of 
Natural History," " Tales in Verse," and other 
productions written expressly for their use and 
pleasure. 

Mrs. Howitt is distinguished by the mild, un- 
affected, and conciliatory manners, for which " the 
people called Quakers" have always been remark- 
able. Her writings, too, are in keeping with her 
character : in all tiiere is evidence of peace and 
good-will ; a tender and a trusting nature ; a gen- 
tle sympatliy with humanity ; and a deep and 
fervent love of all the beautiful works which the 
Great Hand has scattered so plentilully before 
tiiose by whom they can be felt and appreciated. 
She has mixed but little with the world; the 
home-duties of wife and mother have been to her 
productive of more pleasant and far happier re- 
suits than struggles for distinction amid crowds ; 
she has made her reputation quietly but securely ; 
and has laboured successfully as well as earnestly 
to inculcate virtue as the noblest attribute of an 
English woman. If there be some of her con- 
temporaries who have surpassed her in the higher 
qualities of poetry, — some who have soared higher, 
and others who have taken a wider range, — tliere 
are none whose writings are better calculated to 
delight as well as inform. Her poems are always 
graceful and beautiful, and often vigorous ; but 
they are essentially feminine: they afford evi- 
dence of a kindly and generous nature, as well 
as of a fertile imagination, and a safely -cultivated 
mind. She is entitled to a high place among the 
Poets of Great Britain ; and a still higher among 
those of her sex by whom the intellectual rank 
of woman has been asserted without presump- 
tion, and maintained without display. 

(') 



eontcut^* 



Page 

THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS 1 

The Poor Scholar 2 

Thomas of Torres 6 

The Pirate 14 

The Old Man 24 

Raymond 32 

Philip of Maine 46 

The Sorrow of Teresa 70 

HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES 77 

Marien's Pilgrimage : 

Parti 78 

Partll 79 

Part III 80 

PartIV 81 

Part V 83 

Part VI 84 

Part VII 85 

Part VIII 86 

PartlX 87 

PartX 89 

PartXI 91 

PartXII 93 

Old Christmas 95 

The Twelfth Hour ib. 

The Blind Boy and his Sister 96 

The Spirit's Questionings 97 

The Poor Child's Hymn ib. 

A Dream ib. 

The Boy of the Southern Isle : 

Parti 98 

Part II 100 

Part III ib. 

Easter Hymns : 

Hymn I.— The Two Marys 101 

II.— The Angel ib. 

III.— The Lord Jesus 102 

IV.— The Eleven ib. 

Corn Fields ib. 

The Two Estates 103 

Life's Matins 104 

This World and the Next ib. 

A Life's Sorrow 105 

The Old Friend and the New 106 

Mabel on Midsummer Day : 

Parti 107 

Part II 108 

A Christmas Carol 109 

Little Children 110 

BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER 
COUNTRY THINGS: 

The Stormy Peterel 110 

The Poor Man's Garden Ill 

B 



Page 

The Apple-Tree 112 

The Heron ib. 

The Rose of May 114 

The Dor-Hawk 115 

TheOak-Tree ib. 

The Carohna Parrot 116 

The Raven 118 

Flower Comparisons ib. 

Little Streams 119 

TheVVolf. ib. 

The Passion-Flower 120 

The Reindeer 122 

The I vy-Bush ib. 

Morning Thoughts 123 

The Pheasant ib. 

Harvest Field-Flowers 124 

TheSea-GuU ib. 

Summer Woods 125 

The Mandrake 126 

The Hedgehog 127 

The Cuckoo ib- 

The Hornet 128 

The Use of Flowers 129 

The Carrion-Crow ib. 

Buttercups and Daisies 130 

The Titmouse, or Blue-Cap ib. 

Sunshine 131 

The Elephant ib. 

The Wild Swan 132 

The Mill-Stream 133 

Summer ib. 

The Falcon ib. 

The Child and the Flowers 134 

The Flax-Flower 135 

The House-Sparrow 136 

Childhood 138 

Birds 139 

The Woodpecker ib. 

The Harebell HO 

The Screech Owl ib. 

Flower Paintings 141 

L'Envoi ib- 

SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY : 

The Coot 142 

The Camel ib. 

Cedar Trees 143 

The Monkey ib. 

The Fossil Elephant 144 

The Locust 145 

The Broom-Flower ib. 

The Eagle ib. 

The Nettle-King 146 

The Bird of Paradise ib. 

(9) 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

TheWater-Rat 147 

The Sparrow's Nest ib. 

The Kingfisher 148 

Migration of" the Grey Squirrels ib. 

The Beaver 149 

True Story of Web-Spinner ib. 

Spring 151 

The Northern Seas 152 

The Southern Seas ib. 

The Garden 153 

The Lion 154 

The Fox ib. 

The Wood-Mouse 155 

The Spider and the Fly ib. 

The Tailor Bird's Nest and the Long-Tail 

Titmouse Nest 156 

The Humming-Bird ib. 

The Ostrich 157 

The Dormouse ib. 

The Wild Fritillary ib. 

The Squirrel 158 

The Dragon-Fly ib. 

The Wild Spring-Crocus ib. 

The Swallow 159 

The Sea ib. 

TALES IN VERSE: 

Olden Times 160 

Madam Fortescue and her Cat IGl 

Andrew Lee 164 

The Wanderer's Return ib- 

A Swinging Song 166 

Ellen More ib. 

A Day of Disaster 167 

The Young Mourner 168 

The Bear and the Bakers 169 

The Soldier's Story 171 

Marien Lee 172 

The Child's Lament ib. 

The Sailor's Wife 173 

The Morning Drive 174 

The Found Treasure 175 

Thoughts of Heaven 176 

A Day of Hard Work ib. 

The Old Man and the Carrion Crow 177 

May Fair 178 

French and English 1 79 

The Little Mariner ib. 

The Snow Drop 180 

A Poetical Letter 181 

Alice Fleming 182 

One of the Vanities of Human Wishes 183 

The Garden 184 



Page 

Song for the Ball-Players 184 

The Kitten's Mishap 185 

Spring ib. 

Life among the Mountains 186 

Pilgrims ib. 

The Cowslips 187 

The Indian Bird ib. 

The Children's Wish 189 

The English Mother ib. 

The Departed 190 

A Poetical Chapter on Tails ib. 

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES 192 

The Voyage with the Nautilus ib. 

Deliciae Maris 193 

Flowers 194 

The Sale of the Pet Lamb of the Cottage. . 195 

The Faery Oath 196 

Child's Faith 197 

America ib. 

The Boomed King 200 

The Dream of Peticius 203 

Lodore, a Summer Vision ib. 

Du Guesclin's Ransom 204 

The Household Festival 205 

The Three Ages ib 

Mourning on Earth 205 

Rejoicing in Heaven ib. 

The Temple of Juggernaut 207 

Household Treasures ib. 

The Mosque of Sultan Achmet ib. 

The Source of the Jumna 208 

The Baron's Daughter 209 

Smyrna 210 

Oliver Cromwell ib. 

Marshal Soult ib. 

The Valley of the Sweet Waters 211 

The Burial-Ground at Sidon ib. 

The Arrival 212 

An English Grave at Mussooree 213 

TheOdalique 214 

The Tomb of St. George ib. 

Vespers in the Capelle Reale 215 

Newcastle-upon-Tyne ib. 

View near Deobun, among the Himalayas . 216 

The New Palace of Mahmoud II 217 

The Monastery of Santa Saba ib. 

The Gipsy Mother's Song ib. 

The Ordeal of Touch 218 

The Andalusian Lover ib. 

Installation of the Bishop of Magnesia .... 219 

A Forest Scene in the days of Wickliffe . .. 220 
10 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

MARY HOWITT, 



Sllir ScUnt ^tmiftattons. 



What's done we partly may compute, 
But know not what's ies\s[eii. — Burns. 



ALARIC A. WATTS, ESQ. 

THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS SINCERE FRIEND, 
THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE. 



The idea of this poem originated in a strong impres- 
sion of the immense value of the human soul, and ai' 
all the varied modes of its trials, according to its own 
infinitely varied modifications, as existing in different 
individuals. We see the awful mass of sorrow and 
of crime in the world, but we know only in part — in 
a very small degree, the fearful weight of solicitations 
and impulses of passion, and the vast constraint of 
circumstances, that are brought into play against 
suflfering humanity. In the luminous words of my 
motto, 

'What's done we partly may compute. 
But know not what's resisted.' 

Thus, without sufficient reflection, we are furnished 
with data on which to condemn our fellow-creatures, 
but without sufficient grounds for their palliation and 
commiseration. It is necessary for the acquisition 
of that charity, which is the soul of Christianity, for 
us to descend into the depths of our own nature; to 
put ourselves into many imaginary and untried situa- 
tions, that we may enable ourselves to form some 
tolerable notion how we might be affected by them ; 
how far we might be tempted — how far deceived — 
how far we might have occasion to lament the evil 
power of circumstances, to weep over our own weak- 
ness, and pray for the pardon of our crimes; that, 
having raised up this vivid perception of what we 
might do, suffer and become, we may apply the rule 
to oiu" fellows, and cease to be astonished in some 



degree, at the shapes of atrocity into which some of 
them are transformed ; and learn to bear with others 
as brethren, who have been tried tenfold beyond our 
own experience, or perhaps our strength. 

The evil agent whom I have employed for the 
working out of this moral process, in this poem, may 
either be regarded literally, as he is represented, 
according to the popular creed ; or simply, as a per- 
sonification of the principle of temptation, as each 
individual reader's own bias of sentiment may lead 
him to prefer: for my own part, I regard him in the 
latter point of view. 

There may be some who may not approve of the 
extent of crime which I have brought into action in 
the course of these dramas. They may deem the 
experiment especially dubious in a female writer. 
But let such reflect, that without high temptation 
there could he no high crime; without high crime 
there could be no actual and adequate representation 
of human nature, as we know it to exist. And 
therefore to have flinched in this respect, would have 
been to defeat the whole object of my work. Let 
those reflect also, that it has not been my plan to 
render the description of crime alluring. In that 
case I should have deserved, not only all the blame 
the timid or the rigidly righteous could heap upon 
me, but also that of the philosophical observer of our 
nature ; for my view of it then would have been 
false and injust. But I have painted the career of 
crime such as it is — one uniform downward tendency 
to degradation and ruinous misery; and have thereby 
held up to young and old, to strong and weak, to 

11 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



the high and the lowly of earth, the most important 
moral lesson that the light and darkness of this 
strange life can teach to tried, allured, rational yet 
corruptible, intellectual yet sense-involved beings — 
the most important we are capable of giving or 
receiving. 

The scenes, characters, and events in these dramas 
are, as in human life, exceedingly various, and ex- 
ceedingly diversified in their degrees of moral purity 
or turpitude ; but if they are allowed only to be such 
as fall really within the scope of our nature, they 
need no defence, for they must be full of lessons of 
wisdom "and of stimulus to good. 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



In a gloomy chaotic region of universal space 
inhabited by the Spirits of Evil, who, enraged at 
their expulsion from heaven, still endeavoured to 
revenge themselves upon the justice of God, by over- 
turning or defacing the beauty of his moral creation 
in the spirit of man, sate three of the lower order of 
Spirits. Among them was, Achzib the liar, or the 
runner to and fro, — a restless, ambitious spirit, who, 
hating good, coveted distinction among the bad. 

For a long time they had sate in silence, each occu- 
pied by his own cogitations ; and there is no telling 
how much longer they might have remained so, had 
not the attention of the youngest been diverted by a 
gloomily magnificent procession, which was dimly 
seen passing in the distance. 

" Another of the favoured ones," said he, " is this 
day crowned !" 

"Ay," replied Achzib, "it is an easy thing for 
some to obtain distinction! I have desired it for long; 
I have done services to merit it ; but my merits, like 
my desires, are fruitless." 

" Hast thou," inquired the eldest of the three, 
" proved the supremacy of evil ? hast thou shown 
that we are stronger than God ?" 

" I have done much," said Achzib, " as ye all 
know !" 

" But, if thou have failed to do this, ' rejoined the 
other, " thou canst not have deserved the distinction 
thou desirest !" 

" But that is soon done !" answered Achzib. 

" Not so soon !" interrupted the youngest spirit. 
" I have tried to prove it till I am weary ; and now 
I unreluctantly make the confession, that though we 
are mighty, God is mightier than we — his mercy is 
stronger than our hate, his integrity than our craft I" 

"I deny all this," said Achzib, "and I will prove 
it beyond controversy .' I will directly ascend to the 
earth: and of the human spirits whom I will tempt, 
I will win the greater number, if not all of them, to 
their ruin!" 

" If thou do this," said the eldest spirit, " thou wilt 
indeed deserve to be crowned like him whose hon- 



ours thou murmurest against : it is for less than this 
that he obtained them !" 

" You shall see," said Achzib exultingly, " what I 
will do. I will select seven human beings, and tempt 
them according to their several natures ; and if I 
prove not beyond dispute the superior power of evil, 
let me be called tenfold, Achzib the liar!" 

" Be it so!" replied the other two. 



Achzib was upon earth. He took up his abode in 
a famous city, and assuming the character of a phi- 
losopher, inquired out their most learned men. All 
told him of a poor scholar. Achzib saw him and 
conversed with him. He found him young, worn out 
with study, and as simple, unpractised and inexpe- 
rienced in the ways of men a.s a child. This shall 
be my first essay, said Achzib ; and accordingly, ac- 
cumulating learned treatises and immeasurably long 
parchments of puzzling but unsound philosophy, he 
made his attempt. Whether Achzib or the Poor 
Scholar triumphed, shall be seen. 



THE POOR SCHOLAR. 



PERSONS. 

THE POOR SCHOLAR. 
ACHZIB, THE PHILOSOPHER. 
THE MOTHER. 
LITTLE BOY. 

The Scholar^ s Room. — Evening. 

THE POOR SCHOLAR AND LITTLE BOY. 

Lilile Boy, reading. " These things I have spoken 
unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the 
world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer, 
I have overcome the world." Here endeth the 16th 
chapter of the Gospel according to St. John. 
Poor Scholar. Most precious words ! Now go your 
way ; 
The summer fields are green and bright ; 
Your tasks are done. — Why do you stay ? 

Christ give his peace to you : Good night ! 
Boy. You look so pale, sir ! you are worse ; 
Let me remain, and be your nurse ! 
Sir, when my mother has been ill, 
I've kept her chamber neat and still. 
And waited on her all the day ! 

SchoL Thank you ! but yet you must not stay; 
Still, still my boy, before we part 

Receive my blessing — 'tis my last! 
I feel Death's hand is on my heart, 
And my life's sun is sinking fast; 
Yet mark me, child, I have no fear, — 

'T is thus the Christian meets his end : 
I know my work is finished here, 

And God — thy God too — is my friend! 
The joyful course has just began; 
Life is in thee a fountain strong ; 
Yet look upon a dying man. 
Receive his words and keep them long ! 
12 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



Fear God, all-wise, omnipotent, 

In him we live and have our being; 
He hath all love, all blessing sent — 

Creator — Father — All-decreeing I 
Fear him, and love, and praise, and trust: 

Yet have of man no slavish fear; 
Remember kings, like thee, are dust, 

And at one judgment must appear. 
But virtue, and its holy fruits. 

The poet's soid, the sage's sense, 
These are exalted attributes; 

And these demand thy reverence. 
But, boy, remember this, e'en then 
Revere the gifts, but not the men ! 
Obey thy parents ; they are given 

To guide our inexperienced youth ; 
Types are they of the One in heaven. 

Chastising bat in love and truth ! 
Keep thyself pure — sin doth eifuce 

The beauty of our spiritual life : 
Do good to all men — live in peace 

And charity, abhorring strife ! 
The mental power which God has given, 

As I have taught thee, cultivate ; 
Thou canst not be too wise for heaven, 

If thou dost humbly consecrate 
Thy soul to God ! and ever take 

In his good book delight ; there lies 
The highest knowledge, which willmake 

Thy soul unto salvation wise ! 
My little boy, thou canst not know 

How strives my spirit fervently. 
How my heart's fountains overflow 

With yearning tenderness for thee ! 
God keep and strengthen thse from sin! 

God crown thy life with peace and joy. 
And give at last to enter in 

The city of his rest! 

My boy 
Farewell — I have had joy in thee ; 
I go to higher joy — oh, follow me ! 
But now farewell! 

Boy. Kind sir, good night ! 

I will return with morning light. [He goes out. 

[Tlie Poor Scholar nits for some time as in 
meditation, then rising and puttivg atixiy 
all his books, except the Bihle, he sits down 
again. 

Schol. Now, now I need them not, I 've done with 
them. 
I need not blind philosophy, nor dreams 
Of speculating men, entangling truth 
In cobweb sophistiy, away with them — 
One word read by that child is worth them all ! 
— The business of my life is finished now 
With this day's work. I have dismissed the class 
For the last time — I am alone with death! 
To-morrow morn, they will inquire for me. 
And learn that I have solved the last, great problem. 
This pale, attenuate frame they m.ay behold. 
But that which loves, and hopes, and speculates. 
They will perceive no more. Mysterious being! 
2 



Life cannot comprehend thee, though thou showest 

Thyself by all the I'unctions of our life — 

'Tis death — death only, which is the great teacher! 

Awful instructor! he doth enter in 

The golden rooms of state, and all perforce 

Teach there its proud, reluctant occupant ; 

He doth inform in miserable dens 

The locked-up soul of sordid ignorance 

With his sublimest knowledge ! he hath stolen 

Gently, not unawares, into the chamber 

Of the Poor Scholar, like a sober friend 

Who doth give time for ample preparation! 

He hath dealt kindly with me, giving first 

Yearnings for unimaginable good, 

Which the world's pleasure could not satisfy ; 

And lofty aspiration, that lured on 

The ardent soul as the sun lures the eagle ; 

Next came a drooping of the outward frame, 

Paleness and feebleness, and wasted limbs. 

Which said, " prepare ! thy days are numbered !" 

And thus for months had this poor frame declined. 

Wasting and wasting ; yet the spirit intense 

Growing more clear, more hourly confident. 

As if its disenthralment had begun ! 

Oh, I should long to die ! 
To be among the stars, the glorious stars; 
To have no bounds to knowledge ; to drink deep 
Of living fountains — to behold the wise, 
The good, the glorified! to be with God, 
And Christ, who passed through death that I might 

live ! 
Oh I should long for death, but for one tie. 
One lingering tie that binds me to the earth! 
My mother ! dearest, kindest, best of mothers! 
What do I owe her not ? all that is great, 
All that is pure — all that I have enjoyed 
Of outward pleasure, or of spiritual life. 
I have derived from her ! has she not laboured 
Early and late for me ? first through the years 
Of sickly infancy — then by her toil 
Maintained the ambitious scholar — overpaid 
By what men said of him ! Oh thou untired. 
True heart of love, for thee I hoped to live ; 
To pay thee back thy never-spent affection ; 
To fill my father's place, and make thine age 
As joyful as thou mad'.st my passing youth ! 
Alas ! it may not be ! thou hast to weep — 
Thou hast to know that sickness of the heart 
Which bows it to the dust, when some unlooked-for, 
Some irremediable woe befals! 

Surely ere long thou wilt be at my side, 



For I did summon thee, and thy strong love 

Brooks not delay I Alas, thou knowest not 

It was to die within thy holy arms 

That I have asked thy presence! Oh! come, come, 

Thou most beloved being, bless thy son, 

And take one comfort in his peacefiil death! 

[A slight knocking is heard at the door, 
and the Philosopher enters. 
Philos. Well, my young friend, I 've looked in to 
inquire 
After your health. I saw your class depart, 
And would have conference with you once again. 

13 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Schol. To-night I must decline your friendship, sir. 
I am so weak I cannot taliv with you 
On controversial points ever again. 
Besides, my faith brings such a holy joy, 
Such large reward of peace, why would you shake it? 
Or is it now a time for doubts and fears, 
When my soul's energy should be concentred 
For one great trial ? See you not, e'en now, 
The spectre death is with me >. 

P/iilos. Cheer up, friend. 

It is the nature of all sickness thus 
To bring death near to the imagination. 
Even as a telescope dolh show the moon 
Just at our finger-ends without decreasing 
The actual distance. Come, be not so gloomy ; — 
You have no busine.'sa to be solitary ; 
A cheerful friend will bring back cheerfulness. 
Have you perused the books I left with you ? 

SchoL I have, and like them not! 

Philos. Indeed ! indeed ! 

Are they not full of lofty argument 
And burning eloquence ? For a strong soul, 
Baptized in the immortal wells of thought. 
They must be glorious food ! 

Schol. Pardon me, sir. 

They are too specious ; — they gloss over error 
With tinsel covering which is not like truth. 
Oh ! give them not to young and ardent minds 
They will mislead, and bafHe and confound : 
Besides, among the sages whom you boast of. 
With their proud heathen virtues, can ye find 
A purer, lofiier, nobler character ; 
More innocent, and yet more filled with wisdom, 
Fuller of high devotion — more heroic 
Than the Lord Jesus — dignified yet humble; 
Warring 'gainst sin, and yet fijr .sinners dying ? 

Philos. Well ; pass the men, what say you to the 
morals ? 

Schol. And where is the Utopian code of morals 
Equal to that which a few words set forth 
Unto the Christian. " do ye so to others 
As ye would they should do unto yourselves." 
And where, among the fables of their poets. 
Which you pretend veil the divinest trulhs. 
Find you the penitent prodigal coining back 
Unto his father's bosom ; thus to show 
God's love, and our relationship lo him ? 
Where do they teach us in our many needs 
To lift up our bowed, broken hearts to God, 
And call him " Father f — Leave me as 1 ami 
I am not ignorant, though my learning lie 
In this small book — nor do I ask for more ! 

Philos. But have you read the parchments? 

Schol. All of them. 

Philos. And what impression might they make 
upon you ? 
For knowing as I do your graceful mind. 
And your profound research beyond your years, 
I am solicitous of your approval. 

Schol. I cannot praise — I cannot say one word 
In commendation of your misspent labours. 
Oh; surely it was not a friendly part 
To hold these gorgeous baits before a soul 



Just tottering on eternity! Delusion, 
'Tis all delusion! while my soul abhorred, 
My heart was wounded at the traitorous act ! 

Philos. Come, come, my friend, this is mere de- 
clamation ; 
You have misunderstood both them and me! 
Point out the errore — you shall find me ever 
Open unto conviction. 

Schol. See my state — 

A few short hours, and I must be with God ; 
And yet you ask me to evolve that long 
Entanglement of subtlest sophistry ! 
This is no frienuly part: but I conjure you, 
Give not your soul to vain philosophy : 
The drooping Christian at the hour of death 
Needs other, mightier wisdom than it yields. 
Oh, though I am but young, and you are old, 
Grant me the privilege of a dying man. 
To counsel you in lov6! 

Philos. Enough, enough ! 

I see that you are spent. I have too long 
Trespassed upon your lime. But is there nought 
That I can serve you in ? Aspire you not 
To win esteem by study? I will speak 
Unto the primes! scholars throughout Europe 
In your behalf All universities 
Will heap upon you honours at my asking. 

Schol. There was a time these things had been a 
snare ; 
But the near prospect of eternity 
Takes from the gauds of earth iheir tempting'st lure; 
No, no — it was a poor unmeet ambition 
Which then was hot within me, and, thank God, 
Afiecteth me no more! 

Philos. Nay, but my friend. 

For your dear mother's sake would you not leave 
A noble name emblazoned on your tomb ? 

Schol. Can such poor, empty honours compensate 
Unto a childless mother for her son? 
You know her not, and me you know not either ! 

Philos. But think you, my young friend, learning 
is honoured 
By every honour paid to its disciples : 
Your tomb would be a shrine, to learning sacred. 

Schol. There is more comfort, sir, unto my soul 
To feel the smallest duty not neglected. 
And my day's work fulfilled, than if I knew 
This perishable dust would be interred 
In kingly marble, and my name set forth 
In pompous blazonry. 

Philos. Ty^ot to be great — 

You do mistake my drift — but greatly useful; 
Surely you call not this unmeet ambiiion! 

iSf:/;o/. Sir, had the will of God ordained a wider, 
A nobler sphere of usefulness on earth. 
He would have given me strength, and health, and 

power 
For its accomplishment. I murmur not 
That little has been done, but ralher bless Him 
Who has permilied me to do thai little; 
And die content in his sufficient mercy. 
Which has vouchsafed reward beyond my merit 

14 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



Philos. Nay, I must serve you ! Let me but con- 
tribute 
Unto your body's ease. This wretched room, 
And its poor pallet — would you not desire 
A lighter, airier, more commodious chamber. 
Looking out to the hills ; and where the shine 
Of the great sun might enter — where sweet odours, 
And almost spiritual beauty of fair flowers 
Might gratify the sense — and you might fall 
Gracefully into death, in downy ease ! 
Speak, and all this is yours ! 

Schol. Here will I die ! 

Here have I lived — here from my boyhood lived; 
These naked walls are like familiar faces, 
And that poor pallet has so oft given rest 
To my o'erwearied limbs, there will I die! 

Philos. But you do need physicians — here is gold, 
I know the scholar's fee is scant enough ! 
I will go hence, and send you an attendant. 

Schol. I cannot take your gold, I want it not. 
My sickness is beyond the aid of man ; 
And soon, even now, I did expect my mother. 

Philos. [affecting sorrow] My dear young friend, 1 
have to ask your pardon ; 
The letter that I promised to deliver, 
I did ibrget — indeed I gave it not! 

Schol. How have I trusted to a broken reed ! 
Oh mock me not with offers of your friendship. 
Say not that thou would serve me ! 

Oh my mother — 
Poor, broken-hearted one, I shall not see thee ! 

[He covers his face for a moment, then 
rises up with sudden energy. 
Whoe'er you are, and for what purpose come, 
I know not — you have troubled me too long — 
But something in my spirit, from the first. 
Told me that you were evil ; and my thought 
Has often inly uttered the rebuke, 
" Get thee behind me, Satan !" Leave me now — 
Leave me my lonely chamber to myself. 
And let me die in peace! 

[The Philosopher goes out, abashed. 
The scholar falls back into his chair, 
exliausted ; after some time recover- 
ing, he faintly raises himself. 
'Tis night-fall now — and through the uncurtained 

window 
I see the stars : there is no moon to-night. 
Here then I light my lamp for the last time ; 
And ere that feeble flame has spent itself, 
A soul will have departed ! 

Let me now 
Close my account with life ; and to affection. 
And never-cancelled duty, give their rights: 

[He opens his Bible and inscribes it. 
This I return to thee, my dearest mother. 
Thy gift at first, and now my last bequest ; 
And these poor earnings, dust upon the balance 
Compared with the great debt I owe to thee. 
Are also thine — would I had more to give ! 
There lie you, side by side. 

He lays a small sum of money with the Bible. 
Thou blessed book, 



Full of redeeming knowledge, making wise 

Unto salvation, and the holy spring 

Of all divine philosophy — and thou poor dust. 

For which the soul of man is often sold ; 

Yet wast thou not by evil traffic won. 

Nor got by fraud, nor wrung from poverty — 

God blessed the labourer while he toiled for thee. 

And may'st thou bless the widow I — lie thou there — 

I shall not need you more. I am departing 

To the fruition of the hope of one. 

And where the other cannot get admittance! 

And now a few words will explain the rest: — 

[He writes a few words, which he encloses 
with them, and making all into a packet, 
seals them up. 
God comfort her poor heart, and heal its wounds, 
Which will bleed fresh when she shall break this seal. 
[Shortly after this is done, he becomes sud- 
denly paler — a convulsive spasm passes 
over him ; when he recovers, he slowly 
rises, and kneels upon his pallet-bed. 
Schol. Almighty God! look down 
Upon thy feeble servant ! strengthen him ! 

Give him the victor's crown. 
And let not faith be dim ! 
Oh, how unworthy of thy grace. 
How poor, how needy, stained with sin ! 
How can I enter in 
Thy kingdom, and behold thy face ! 
Except thou hadst redeemed me, I had gone 

Without sustaining knowledge to the grave ! 
For this I bless thee, oh thou Gracious One, 

And thou wilt surely save ! 
I bless thee for the life which thou hast crowned 

With never-ending good ; 
For pleasures that were found 

Like wayside flowers in quiet solitude. 
I bless thee for the love that watch'd o'er me 
Through the weak years of infancy. 
That has been, like thine everlasting truth. 
The guide, the guardian-angel of my youth. 
Oh, Thou that didst the mother's heart bestow, 
Sustain it in its woe, 

For mourning give it joy, and praise for heaviness ! 
[He falls speechless upon the bed. 
His mother enters hurriedly. 
Mother. Alas, my son ! and am I come too late ? 
Oh, Christ! can he be dead? 

Schol. [looking up faintly.] Mother, is't thou? 
It is ! who summoned thee, dear mother ? 

Mother. A little boy, the latest of thy class ; 
He left these walls at sunset, and came back 
With me e'en now. He told me of thy words. 
And of thy pallid cheek and trembling hand ; — 
Sorrowing for all, but sorrowing most because 
Thou saidst he would behold thy face no more ! 

Schol. My soul doth greatly magnify the Lord 
For his unmeasured mercies! — and for this 
Great comfort, thy dear presence! I am spent — 
The hand of death is on me ! Ere the s<in 
Lightens the distant mountains, I shall be 
Among the blessed angels ! Even now 

15 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



I see as 'twere heaven opened, and a troop 
Of beautiful spirits waiting my release ! 

Mother. My son ! my son ! and thou so young, so 
wise, 
So well-beloved, alas, must thou depart! 
Oh, rest thy precious head within mine arms, 
My only one ! — Thou wast a son indeed I 

Schol. Mother, farewell! I hear the heavenly 
voices, 
They call ! — I cannot stay : farewell — farewell ! 



Choir of Spiritual Voices. 
No more sighing. 
No more dying. 
Come with us, thou pure and bright ! 
Time is done, 
Joy is won, 
Come to glory infinite! 
Hark ! the angel-songs are pealing ! 
Heavenly mysteries are unsealing. 

Come and see, oh come and see ! 
Here the living waters pour, 
Drink and thou shall thirst no more, 

Dweller in eternity ! 
No more toiling — no more sadness ! 
Welcome to immortal gladness. 

Beauty and unending youth ! 
Thou that hast been deeply tried, 
And like gold been purified. 

Come to the eternal truth ! 
Pilgrim towards eternity, 
Tens of thousands wait for thee ! 

Come, come ! 



Achzib was surprised at the ill success of his 
attempt upon the Poor Scholar. He was humiliated 
to feel how powerfully he had been rebuked by one 
comparatively a youth— one who was poor, and who 
had so little knowledge of men. It was before the 
authority of virtue he had shrunk, but he had never 
believed till that moment, that virtue possessed sucli 
authority; and almost confounded, he walked forth 
from the door of the Poor Scholar into the fields that 
surrounded the city. 

Achzib had done unwisely in making too direct an 
attack. The integrity of principle may be under- 
mined, but is seldom taken by storm. 

When Achzib had duly pondered upon the cause 
of his failure, his desire was only redoubled to make 
a fresh attempt. " I will neither choose a dying man, 
a scholar, nor one of inllexible virtue," said he, "and 
yet my triumph shall be signal and complete." He 
thought over the baits for human souls — love — 
ambition — pleasure; but all these he rejected. — 
" For," said he, " is not avarice more absorbingly, 
more hopelessly cruel than all these ? The lover may 
be fierce, ungovernable, extravagant; still is the 
passion in itself amiable. The man of ambition may 
wade through blood to a kingdom ; yet even in his 
career, give evidence of good and great qualities. The 
votary of pleasure, though he sacrifice health, wealth, 



talents, and friends, yet has the moments when the 
soul, reacting upon itself, prays to be disenthralled. 
None are retrieveless ; none are utterly alien to good, 
save the vicfim of avarice ; lor when did the soul, 
abandoned to this vice, feel misgivings ? when did it 
feel either pity or love ? or when did it do one good 
thing, or repent of one evil thing? It will strip 
without remorse, the fatherless, the widow, nay even 
the very sanctuary of God ! Avarice is the Upas of 
the soul — no green thing flourishes below it, no bird 
of heaven flies over it; and the dew and the rain, and 
the virtues of the earth, become pestilential because 
of it ! It shall be the love of gold which shall be 
ray next temptation." 



THOMAS OF TORRES. 



PERSONS. 

THOMAS OF TORRES. 

ACHZIB, A STRANGER. 

THE SECOND LORD OF TORRES. 

ISABEL, A WIDOW, 

AND OTHER SUBORDINATE CHARACTERS. 

Time occupied, one-and-twenty years. 



SCENE I. 

A green hill overlooking a broad valley, in the centre 
of which, among a few old trees, stands a noble 
mansion of grey stone ; a fine lake appears in the 
winding of the valley, and the hill-sides are scattered 
with a few worthless old trees, the remnants cf woods 
which have been felled. — Thomas of Torres comes 
forward, and throws himself on the grass. 

Thomas. That was my home — the noble hall of 

Torres ! 
Mine were those meadows — yon bright lake was 

mine, 
Where when a boy I fished, and swam, and hurled 
Smooth pebbles o'er its surface ; those green hills 
Were mine, and mine the woods that clothed them — 
This was my patrimony ! a fair spot. 
Than which this green and pleasant face of earth 
Can show none fairer ! With this did descend 
An honourable name — the lord of Torres! 
An unimpeachable and noble name, 
Without a blot on its escutcheon, 
Till it descended to a fool like me — 
A spendthrift fool, who is become a proverb I 

My father was a good and quiet man — 
He wedded late in life ; and I was born 
The child of his old age ; my mother's face 
I knew not, saving in its gilded frame. 
Where, in the chamber of her loving husband, 
It hung before his bed. My father died 
VVhen I was in my nonage. Marvellous pains, 
Reading of books, study, and exercise, 

16 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



7, 



Made me, they said, a perfect gentleman ; 

Such was the lord of Torres three years since ! 

He rode, he ran, he hunted, and he hawked. 

And all exclaimed, "a gallant gentleman !" 

He had his gay companions — what of that ? 

They said that youth must have its revelries. 

He laughed, he sung, he danced, he drank his wine, 

And alt declared, " a pleasant gentleman !" 

They came to him in need — his many friends — 

Money he had in plenty, it was theirs! 

He paid their debts ; he gave tliem noble gifts ; 

He feasted thein ; he said, " they are my iriends. 

And what I have is their'sl" and they exclaimed, 

" Oh, what a noble, generous gentleman!" 

He had his friends too, of another sort — 

Fair women that seduced him with their eyes, — 

For these he had his fetes ; his pleasant shows ; 

His banquetings in forest solitudes. 

Beneath the green boughs, like the sylvan gods: 

And these repaid him with sweet flatteries. 

And with bewitching smiles and honeyed words 

The lord of Torres did outgo his rents; 

His many friends had ta'en his ready cash ; 

*' What then !" said they, " thy lands are broad and 

rich. 
Get money on them I" Ah, poor thoughtless fool, 
He listened to their counsels ! — Feasts and gifis, 
And needy friends, again have made him bare I 
" Cut down thy woods !" said they. He cut them 

down ; 
And then his wants lay open to the day. 
And people said " this thriftless lord is poor!" 
This touched his pride, and he grew yet more lavish. 
"Come to my heart," said he, "my faithful friends; 
We'll drink and laugh, to show we yet can spend !" 
— "The woods are lelled; the money is all .<pent; 
What now remains I — The land's as good as gone, 
The usurer dulh take its yearly rent !" 
So spake the lord again unto his friends : 
" Sell house and all !" exclaimed the revellers. 
The young lord went to his uneasy bed 
A melancholy man. The portraits old 
Looked i'rom their gilded frames as if they spoke 
Silent upbraidings — all seemed stern but one. 
That youthful mother, whose kind eye and smile 
Appeared to say. Return, my son, return ! 

The lord of Torres is a thoughtful man : 
His days are full of care, his nights of fear ; 
He heedeth not which way his leather sits; 
He wears the velvet jerkin for the silk; 
He hath forgot the roses in his shoes ; 
He drinks the red wine and forgets the pledge; 
He hears the jest, and yet he laughelh not: 
Then said his friends "Our lord hath lost his wits, 
Let's leave him ample space to look for them !" 
They rode away, and left his house to silence ; 
The empty rooms echoed the closing doors ; — 
The board was silent ! silent was the court. 
Save for the barking of the uneasy hounds. 
Soon spread those Iriends, the news of his distress! 
And then again a crowd was at his doors : 
2* C 



This was a jeweller, and must be paid ; 
This was a tailor — this had sold perfumes. 
This silks, and this confectionery and wine — 
They must — they must be paid — they would be paid ! 

" The lord of Torres is a ruined man !" 

So said the cunning lawyer; — and they sold 

Horses and hounds and hawks, and then they said — 

The house itself must go! The silent lord 

Rose up an angry man : " Fetch me my horse !" 

Said he ; for now a thought had crossed his mind 

Wherein lay hope. — Alas! he had no horse — 

The lord of Torres walked a-foot that day ! 

"I'll seek my friends!" said he, "my right good 

friends ; 
They'll help me in my need, each one of them." 
He sought their doors — this saw hiin through the 

blind, 
And bade his valet say, he was abroad : 
This spoke him pleasantly, and gave him wine. 
And pledged him in the cup, his extellcnt friend! 
But when he told the purport of his visit. 
He shook his head, and said he had no gold. 
Even while he paid a thousand pieces down 
For a vain bauble ! From another's lips 
He heard the mocking words of "spendthrift," — 

" beggar." 
The lord of Torres turned upon his heel. 
And muttered curses while his heart was sad. 
" There 's yet another friend," said he, " beloved 
Beyond Ihem all ; for while I held tliem churls. 
This was the chosen brother of my heart !" 
The lord of Torres stood beside his gate ; 
There was a show as for a festival. 
"1 come in a good hour!" said he to one 
Who stood hard hy — " what means this merry show ?'" 
" IIow ! know you not," said he, " this very morn 
The noble Count hath wedded the fiiir daughter 
Of Baron Vorm !" The young lord's cheek is white, 
His brain doth reel — he holds against the gate, 
And hides his face that none may see his tears! 
He back returned unto his fathers' house. 
And entering in his chamber, barred the door, 
And passed a night of sleepless agony ! 

The lord of Torres was an altered man : 

\ woe had shadowed o'er his countenance ; 

His speech was low, and tremulous, and sad 

He bore a wounded heart within his breast. 

Then came his aged steward with streaming eyes, 

And gave to him a little bag of gold ; 

" Take it," he said, " I won it in thy service, 

And in the service of thy noble father!" 

The lord of Torres took the old man's hand. 

And wept as weeps a child ; his heart was touched. 

"Take back thy gold," said he; "I wasted mine, 

Yet will I not expend thy honest gains : — 

I'riend, take it back — I will not touch thy gold I" 

The house was sold — the lands, the lakes were sold. 
And debts and charges swallowed up the price ; 
And now he is a landless, homeless man, — 
He is no lord, he hath no heritage! 
Thomas of Torres, get thee from this place, 

17 



8 



HOVVITTS POETICAL WORKS. 



What dost ihou here ? — art like a cursed sprite 
Looking into the heaven that thou hast lost ? 
Ay, look and long — for yonder do they lie, 
Thy fair lands and thy broad ! Poor outcast wretch, 
Thou may'st not set thy foot within those fields; 
Thou may'st not pull a sapling from the hills ; 
Thou may'st not enter yon fair mansion-house — 
Another man is called the lord of Torres.' 
Out with thee ! thou art but a thriftless hiiid; 
They '11 drive thee hence if thou but set thine eyes 
Upon their fair possessions ! What art now 
Better than him who wins his bread by toil ? 
Belter than that poor wretch who lives by alms ? 
Thou canst not dig; to beg tiiou art ashamed : 
Oh, worse than they — thou, one-time, lord of Torres! 

[A STRANGER advances, and pauses before Thomas. 

Stranger. Are you the lord of Torres ? 

Thos. I was he ! 

Strang. You are the man I seek ! 

Thos. What is 't you want ? 

I can bestow no favours, give no gifts — 
I have not even a stiver for myself! 

Strang. Nothing I ask; I seek but to confer. 
Pvow listen to my words, my noble friend ! 
I knew a man whose case was like your own ; 
He stood upon the hills that overlooked 
The fair lands he had lost; as you on yours — 
He saw his treeless woods, his desolate mansion, 
Gone to a stranger's name — yet what did he? 
Sit still and make a moan about the past, 
And call himself ill names and beat his breast? 
No, no ! — he was another kind of man ! 
He made a vow lo win his lost lands back; 
To set a tree for every tree he felled ; 
To dwell in his ancestral home again ! 

Thos. And was his vow performed ? 

Strang. Indeed, it was ! 

Where he had counted one in his wild youth, 
In his old age he counted twenty fold ; 
And died within the room where he was born. 

77105. To win the faithless lady of his love 
Made he a vow ? 

Strang. That vow he did not make ; 

Because I know not if his heart had loved. 
But you may make that vow. 

Thos. She is a wife ! 

Strang. He that has wedded her is not immortal : 
Suppose he die, can you then claim her hand, 
A homeless, landless man ? Be.side, she then 
Would have increased wealth ? 

Thos. She was to me 

Dearer than gold or silver. I'd have ta'en her, 
A serving wench, without a single doit, 
In my prosperity. 

Strang. And she loved too ? 

Thos. Methonght she did. 

Strang. She did — nor would have wedded 

Anolher man might she have made her choice. 

Thos. Ha! say you so? Could I believe it true, 
I'd make the vow and keep it! 

Strang. I swear to you 

She was compelled to wed against her will — 
And, but that it were sin, she still would love you! 



Thos. I'll do as thou hast said ! give me thy hand ! 
Thou hast performed a friend's part, though a stranger; 
Witness my vow — witness, thou ancient earth. 
And thou, more ancient heaven, oh, witness it! 
All that was mine I will win back to me — 
All I have lost I will again possess — 
Silver or gold, or love more precious still ! 
All that gave joy and beauty to my life, 
Shiill gladden and adorn it ere its close ! 
Hunger and thirst, and cold, and weariness 
Shall not oppose me ! — through the day I '11 toil, 
And through the night I will lay ceaseless schemes! 
Here, in the liice of my ancestral home, 
I make this .solemn vow! — So help me God! 

Strang. You have done well. The oath is good — 
now keep it ! 
But I must part from you — my road Ilea hence. 

Thos. My road lies any way. — I'll go with you. 

Strang, [solng forward.] The ground was good — 
and now the seed is sown 
Which will produce a harvest for my reaping! 

[Tho>7ias remains, looking into the valley for 
a few moments, and then follows him. 



SCENE II. 
The interior of a miserable hut, cold wood-ashes lie 
upon the hearth, and straw, as for a bed, in one 
corner. — Enter Thomas of Torres, in a miner's 
dress ; he carries a lighted fagot in one hand, and 
a log in the other. 

Thos. I '11 have a blaze anon. — The night is cold, 
And firewood costs me nothing. 

[He la>/s wood upon the hearth, kindles it ; 

and then bolting his door, sits down upon 

a log by the fire. 

'T is bright and warm ! 
These dry pine logs burn cheerily enough ; 
Hissing and crackling, blazing merrily, 
They are good company — and better still. 
They cost me nothing — do not call for wine, 
Sauces and dainty meats, and savoury dishes — 
They live without rich doublets — do not need 
Gold-hilled swords, nor rings, nor laced cravats. 
A fire's a good, companionable friend, 
A comfortable friend, who meets your face 
With pleasant welcome, makes the poorest shed 
As cheerful as a palace ! Are you cold ? 
He warms you — weary ? he refreshes you — 
Hungry? he doth prepare your viands for you — 
Are you in darkness? he gives light to you — 
In a strange land, his face is that of one 
Familiar from your childhood — are you poor ? 
What mailers it to him? he knows no difference 
Between an emperor and the poorest beggar ! 
Where is the friend that bears the name of man 
Will do as much for you ? When I v,-as rich, 
I could have counted out a hundred men. 
And said, "All these would serve me, were there 

need !" 
And any one, or all, had sworn they would ; 
But when need came, where was the readv friend 
Said " Here's my purse, good fellow !" 

18 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



»9 



Curse on them ! 
I had my Uveried servants in those days ; 
Both men and maids I had to wait on me ; 
I slept on down ; the hangings of my bed 
Were damasli ; I did eat from silver ; 
All sorts of meats, and rare elaborate dishes 
Were set before me, with the choicest wines; 
Upon my hands I wore most dainty rings, ^ 

And of the whiteness of my hands did boast! 
Look at them now — hardened and seamed and dark : 
I wear no jewels now — I drink no wine. 
A crust of bread, and a poor herb or two' 
Make up my daily meal ; — my couch is straw ; 
I have no liveried servants — and what then? 
Am I the less a man than in those days ? 
My limbs I use — and I use all my senses ; 
I see, hear, feel, taste, smell as I did then. 
Go to! thou hast not lost much by the change! 
Ay, but tliou hast! thou wast a rich man then, 
Had'st friends, at least thy riches made them for thee — 
Wast loved — poor wretch ! — art loved now, thinkest 

thou? 
Look at thy sordid frame — look at thy garb — 
Look at thy blackened face, thy length of beard, 
Thy uncombed, tangled locks — could she love ihee? 
'Tis but a process 1 am passing through ; 
To-day the grub, but on the morrow morn 
The painted butterfly ! 

[A rap is heard at his door. Thomas 
starting, deadens the light with ashes, and 
carefully covers something in a hole in the 
wall — tlie rap is heard again. 

Trav. [tvilhout.] For God's sake, worthy Christian, 

give me shelter. 
Thos. Who are you — and what brings you to this 

door? 
Trav. A weary traveller who halh lost his way ; 
And chance has brought me here. — I am sore spent; 
The night is chill and stormy, give me shelter. 

Thos. My hut is no fit place lor guest to lodge in ! 
I 've neither chair nor table, bread nor wine. 

Trav. But you have fire — and a good roof above 

you ! 
Thos. A little further on a village lieth ; 
You '11 there get fire and shelter, and good cheer. 
Trav. Direct me there. 

Thos. [carefully opening his door.] First you must 
pass the mines ; 
Then cross yon woody ridge ; the hamlet lies 
Below, in the next valley. 

Trav. Thank you, friend , 

And yet the way is long, and the night dark. 

Thos. 'Tis scarce a league — follow yon trembling 
star. 
O'er the old tower ; you cannot miss the way. 

[He shuts to the door, and bars it. 
Am I to lodge all weary travellers ? 
If he got shelter, he'd be asking food. 
Ko, no, i' laith, the world was none so ready 
To give me aught — I've feasted guests enow ! 

[He puts out his fire, and then throws 
himself on the straw. 



SCENE III. 
A fine moonlight night. — A lonely field in the e»- 

tremity of the valley of Torres. — Enter Thomas 

with an ass, he lakes off the bridle and turiis it to 

graze. 

Thomas. There, thou poor, half-starved, patient 
animal. 
There's grass, rare, green grass for thee! eat thy fill. 
Would thou could 'st take a store for forty days ! 
This once was mine — I tell thee, it was mine ! 
I know it inch by inch — yon leafy hedge 
Is hazel every twig. I little dreamed 
When I was wandering here a happy boy 
The time would come when I should steal in here 
A thief o' nights ! 

Ah, I remember well — 
There is a little hollow hereabout, 
Where wild-briar roses, and lithe honeysuckle 
Made a thick bower; 'twas here I used to come. 
To read sweet books of witching poetry ! 
Could it be I ? No, no, I am so changed, 
I will not think this man was once that boy ; 
The thought would drive me mad ! I will but think 
I once knew one who called this vale his own ; 
I will but think I knew a merry boy, 
And a kind, gentle iiither, years agone. 
Who had their dwelling here ; and that the boy 
Did love this lonely nook, and used to find 
Here the first nests of summer; here did read 
All witching books of glorious poetry ; 
And then, that as the boy became a youth. 
And gentle feeling strengthened into passion, 
And love became the poetry of life. 
Hither he wandered, with a girlish beauty, 
Gathering, like Proserpine, sweet meadow-flowers ; 
And that they sate beneath the wild-briar rose, 
And that he then did kiss that maiden's cheek 
The first time as a lover! Oh my God ! 
That was the heir of Torres — a brave boy, 
A noble-hearted boy ! he grew a man. 
And what became of him ? fla! pass we that — 
Would that I knew not what became of him ! 

[He advances into the hollow. 
'Tis even as then! this bovver hath little changed. 
But hearts have changed since then — and thoughts 

have changed. 
And the great purpose of a life hath changed ! 
Oh that I were a bird among these boughs. 
To live a summer life of peace and joy ; 
To never fret my soul for broken faith ; 
To have no onward hope, no retrospection! — 
Ah I there's the tiny glow-worm as of old ! 
It is a lovely thing. O me! how much 
That's beautiful and pure have I forgotten! 
Years is it since a glow-worm crossed my thoughts. 
And it was the bright marvel of my boyhood — 
A fire, and yet so cold ! let's feel it now. 
If 'tis as it was then. [He sloops to pick it up. 

Heavens, it is gold ! 
And here is more ! bright, shining, glorious gold ! 

[He pulls awni/ jho.ss and roots, and draws 
out a small hag of gold coin. 
19 



10 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Let me into the moonlight — gold, gold, gold ! 
A hoard of shining gold : here lieth more 
Than I have saved in seven years' weary toil. 
And honest gain — this is some robber's booty — 
It were no sin to take a robber's gold, 

[A step is heard approaching. 
Ha! some one comes! 

[He shrinks into the shade, and lies close 
tinder the bank. 
Man. Now, by your leave, good friend, 
W ho may you be ? 

Titos. A poor night traveller, 
Who takes up his cheap quarters 'neath the hedget?. 
Man. I'm in the like case too. But, honest friend, 
I have a little liking lor your pillow, 
May'st please you take the farther side o' the bed ! 
Thos. First come, first served — it is a well 

known adage. 
Man. Come, come, my friend, these are my ancient 
quarters ; 
I have a foolish liking for this spot — 
All are alike to you — 

Thos. I have possession, 

And will maintain it ! 
Man. It shall then be tried ! 

[He lays hold on Thomas, and they 
struggle together. 
Ha ! ha, you thief, then you have got the bag ! 
Thos. I have! 
Man. You villain ! you marauding thief! 

[Thomas rushes into the thicket — 
the man follows. 
Man. [within the thicket.] I am a dead man, help ! 
oh, I am murdered ! 
Christ help me ! I am murdered ! 

Thos. [rushing out.] He is not ! no ! 
Cufls do not murder men ! [He runs off. 



SCENE IV. 

A cave by the sea shore. — Enter Thomas of Torres ; 
he takes out the lag. 

Thos. Now let me count — now let me see my 
gains. 
Ah ! it reminds me of the thirty pieces, 
The price of blood! I would give every piece 
To know he were not dead ! A murderer — 
Thomas of Torres a night murderer ! 
No, 't is not so ! they were not killing blows — 
I will not think of it! 

Now let me count — 
[He counts out a lauidred pieces. 
Oh, thou most goodly thing — most lovely gold 
Dearer unto my soul than meat or drink; 
More beautiful than woman ! Glorious gold, 
I love thee as a youth his earliest mistress! 
Come to my heart, thou brigiit and beautiful — 
Come, come ! [He hugs the gold. 

Bright prize, I care not how I won thee, 
I'll ease my heart witli thee! A hundred pieces! 
Had it been five-and-twenty — even filly, 



I might have groaned for that poor wretch's groan — 
But for a hundred brave, broad, golden pieces 
I '11 groan not. 

[He takes off his belt, and then securely fixing 
them in it, fastens it ronnd his body. 
Thou shah be my true breast-plate, 
My heart's joy, my night and day companion ! 
But hence I this is no land of safely for me. 

[He goes out. 



SCENE V. 

Several years afterwards. — A dark night in a distant 
country. — A field of battle covered with dead. — 
Enter Thomas of Torres with a small lantern in 
his hand. 

Thos. Rings ; dagger-sheaths ; gold chains and 
spurs ; massy gold embroidery — this is all clear gain 
— no deduction for agents — no plaguy discount — all 
net profit! [he gropes among the bodies.] But ha! — 
thou art worth looking after ! Come, my young 
gentleman, I'll be your valet! — Let go your sword. 
Poor wretch! that was a strong death-grasp! Now 
off with your rings! — one, two, three! I'll lay my 
life thou wast a coxcomb — a fine blade, with wit as 
keen as thy sword"s edge, [he tears open the pockets] 
Empty, empty! I'd be sworn he expended his gold 
on his outside — I've known such in my day! 

[He goes forward ; — a groan is heard. 
Thos. Here's life among the dead I — mercy! that 
sound 
In this unearthly silence chills my blood. 
A faint Voice. For the dear love of Christ, be 't 
friend or foe, 
Make short my death ! 

Thos. What, art thou sick of life? 
Voice. It is not life — it is a living dealh I 
Thos. [approaching him, and looking at him atten- 
tively] Ha! thou'rt an argosy with treasure laden! 
Voice. My sword is at my head — for pity's sake, 
Make short work with it ! 

Thos. [seizing his hand.] Gems worthy of a king! 
Wounded Man. [raising himself] Off with thee, 
thou accursed plunderer, — 
Thou stony-hearted wretch, off^ oflfl 

[He faintly strikes him off, and then falls 
back dead. — Thomas proceeds to strip the 
body. 
Thou art a magazine of gems and gold ! 

[He drav^s a gold chain from his neck. 
What, more? Some love-gift! — 'Twas a heavenly 

lady. 
For whom our earthly gold was all too mean. 
That she was set with lustrous pearls o' the sea — 
Let's see this radiant jewel of a lady! 

Heavens! it is Isabel — the gentle queen 
Of my young love — and this was her good lord ' 
Methought the voice had a familiar tone. 
Mine ancient friend ! thus have I paid thee back 
The treachery of thy wooing. — Yet, poor Count, 
My heart misgives ine for despoiling tiiee — 

20 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



11 



And thou, bright Isabel ! it was for thee 
I made the solemn vow, which 1 am keeping ; 
Accursed, wretched spoiler, that I am ! 
Let me begone ! I will not look again 
Upon a dead man's face — at least to-night ! 

[He gathers up Ms spoil, and goes slowly off. 



SCENE vr. 

A foreign city. — A miserable den-like room, surround- 
ed with iron chests, secured with heavy padlocks — 
the door and windows grated and barred. — Thomas 
of Torres sitting at a desk, with pen and ink before 
him. 

Enter a fine gentleman. 
Gent. Good morrow, most excellent sir ! 
Thos. Humph! 

Ge7it. I have the misfortune, sir, to need a thou- 
sand gold pieces, and knowing your unimpeachable 
honour, I have pleasure in asking the loan from you. 
7'Aos. Humph ! 

Gent. Your rate of interest, sir, is ? 

Thos. Thirty per cent, for spendthrift heirs, and 
two responsible sureties. 

Gent. The terms are hard, sir. 
Thos. They are the terms ! 
Gent. Sir, twenty per cent, is high interest : else- 
where 

Thos. Then go elsewhere ! 

[The Gentleman turns on his heel, 
and goes out whistling. 
TTios. The jackanapes ! 

Enter a grim-looking man. 

Man. He cannot pay, sir; he declares it impossi- 
ble, and prays you to have patience; — and in the 
meantime leaves in your hand this casket. 

Thos. [opening it.] Baubles! — Can't pay! — impos- 
sible ! — I say I will be paid ! 

Man. His ship was lost in the squall — he must 
sell the furniture of his house to cover your demand, 
and he prays you to have mercy on his wife and 
children! 

Thos. Wife and children ! talk not to me of wives 
and children ! — I '11 have my money ! 

Ma7i. I tell you, sir, it is impossible, without you 
seize his goods. 

Thos. Then take the city bailiff, and get them 
appraised. 

Ma?i. I cannot do it, sir! — You shall see him 
yourself, [aside.] The nether mill-stone is running 
water compared to his heart ! [He goes out. 

Thos. Twenty thousand gold pieces, and seven 
months' interest — and give tiiat up because a man 
has wife and children. — Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

[He resumes his pen, and calculates 
interest. 

Enter a gentleman, with a depressed countenance. 
Gent. Sir, my misfortunes are unparalleled — 
My ship was stranded in the squall last week, 
And now my wife is at the point of death ! 



Thos. Produce your sureties ! 

Gent. They have proved false — 

Alas ! they proved themselves false friends indeed ! 
They left the city ere I knew my loss. 
And are not to be found. 

Thos. Thou wast a fool 

To put thy trust in friends ; all friends are false ! 

Gent, [pointing to the casket] This casket, sir, I 
sent to you in pledge ; 
It holds the jewels of my dying wife, — 
She will not need them more ! 

Thos. I '11 not accept it .' 

I '11 have my money, every doit of it. 
Principal and interest, paid down this day ! 

Gent. Inhuman wretch! — will you profane the 
chamber 
Of my poor dying wife ! 

Thos. I '11 have my money .' 

[The Gentleman, in great agitation, lays down 
a bundle of parchments before him. 

Thos. Well, what of these ? 

Gent. Give me the further sum 

Of twenty thousand pieces on these lands — 
These parchments will be surety for the whole! 

Thos. [glancing over them.] The lands of Torres ! 
ha! ha! ha! — and you're ? 

Gent. The lord of Torres. 

Thos. How shall I be sure 

Of the validity of these same deeds ? 

Lord of T. I 've heard it said that you are of that 
country ; 
If so, the signatures of its late lords, 
Father and son, may be well known to you. 

Thos. [carefully examining them.] 1 had some 
knowledge of them — these are theirs : 
And you give up your right unto this lordship 
For the consideration of the sura 
Of twenty thousand pieces ? 

Lord of T. No, no, sir ; 

That doth exceed my meaning. 

Thos. Then pay down 

The original sum, with interest, or a prison 
Shall be your home this night, 

Lord of T. 'T would be unjust 

To give awav my children's patrimony ! 

Thos. Sir, take your choice. — Resign this petty 
lordship. 
Or go you to the prison ! 

[He resumes his pen, and sits down 
doggedly to his calculations. 
Lord of T. Ah, my wife, — 

My little innocent and helpless children ! 

Thos. Your home shall be a dungeon on the 

morrow ! 
Lord of T. Thou cruel bloodsucker ! thou most 
inhuman. 
Most iron-hearted scrivener! 

Thos. Spare your tongue ! 

Ill words obtain not men's consideration — 
Pay down the principal and interest ! 
Lord of T. Sir, forty thousand pieces for the 
lordship 

21 



12 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of Torres were a miserable price — 

Too cheap were it at sixty thousand pieces ! 

Thos. I know these lands of Torres— sore run out : 
Woods felled — houses fallen to decay — I know it ; 
A ruined, a dilapidated place! 

Lord of T. So did the last possessor leave it, sir— 
A graceless spendthrift heir, so did he leave it; 
'Tis now a place of beauty — a fair spot, 
None fairer under the broad face of heaven ! 

Thos. Sir, I am no extortioner, God knows ; 
I love fair, upright dealings! I will make 
The twenty thousand pieces you have asked 
A thousand pieces more, and drop my claim 
To the whole sum of interest which is due ! 

Lord of T. P"orty-one thousand pieces, and five 
hundred — 
*T is a poor price for the rich lands of Torres ! 

J'/ios. You do consent — let's have a notary. 

Lord of T. Give me till night to turn it in my 
thoughts. 

Thos. I'll give you not an hour! — not e'en a 
minute I [^e stamps on. the floor with his foot. 

Enter a boy. 
Quick, letch the notary ! [Exit Boy. 

[The Lord of Torres covers his face with 
hishands — Thomas of Torres resumes 
his calculations. 



And 't would have seemed ungracious to refuse her. 
But I '11 beware, and keep out of her sight, 
I '11 warrant me, her eyes are sharp enough ! 



SCENE VII. 

The hold of a ship. — Thomas of Torres seated upon 
an iron chest, and another beside him. — Enter a 
lady, wrapped in a long cloak and veiled ; two 
younger ones follow, supporting a third — the master 
of the vessel follows them. 

Lady. Are these, good sir, the best accommoda- 
tions ? 
Master. Unless you pay the price of what are 

better. 
Lady, [throwing hack her veil, and showing a fair 
hut sad countenance'] 
Sir, I have told you more of our distress 
Than may be pleasing to a stranger's ear ; 
I seek no favours on my own account. 
But for my youngest child, my dying daughter — 

Mast, [turning towards the young ladi/] 
Poor, delicate young thing! Oh no, not here 
Is a fit place for that poor, dying lady — 
Follow me, madam. She shall have my cabin : 
But stay, my gentle mistress, lean on me ! 

[He supports the young lady out, and 
the others follow. 
Thos. Why, yonder is the lady of the pearls — 
The Isabel of my fond, boyish passion ! 
And she is poor, is burdened with three daughters ! 
Four women in a house would be expensive ! 
I was a fool to think I e'er should marry — 
Marry, forsooth, a widow with four daughters, 
And a poor widow too! No, I 'II not marry ! 
'Tis well they 're gone ; — if they had seen me here, 
She might have asked for help in her distress. 



SCENE VIII. 

A small chamber in the house of Torres. — Thomas as 

the lord of Torres, with money-bags on his table. . 

Lord of T. I am the Lord of Torres ! that one 
thought 
Is with me night and day. The lord of Torres! 
A rich lonl, who need borrow gold nor silver. 
But will add heaps unto his countless heaps. 
Gold to his gold, and silver to his silver! 

[A loiv rap is heard, and a poor widow 
enters timidly. 
Widow. Pardon, my lord : I am an aged widow. 
Whose children's children's bread depends upon me. 
I hold a little field, vvhicli we have held, 
In my dead husband's time, for forty years 
The field, to us, is as the staff of life ; 
Good tenants have we been, and regular, 
Never have missed our rent on quarter-day; 
But now your wealthy neighbour, John o'Nokes, 
Desires to have the field to add to his — 
He will be here anon to make his offer; 
Oh my good lord, befriend a feeble widow. 
And her poor fatherless babes ! 

'T is not for me, 
To make a worthy offering to my lord — 
We are but poor — the field is all our wealth 
But what I have, I offer in submission. 

[She lays a few small silver coins before 
him, and a gold ring. 
Lord of T. You shall not be disturbed in your 

possession ! 
Wid. Ten thousand blessings on your noble 
lordship ! [She goes out. 

Lord of T. [testing the ring and coins] They're 
sterling gold and silver, though the weight 
Is small ; but every little addeth to the whole. 
Enter John o'Nokes. 

John [bowing very loiv.] There is a little field— 
a worthless field, 
My noble lord, which brings you little profit 
As 't is now let; and seeing it adjoins 
My land, and is upon the utmost verge 
Of your estate, I fain would buy it from you. 

Lord of T. I have no thought to sell that little 

'field. 
John. My lord, its worth is small to your estate ; 
To mine 't is otherwise — and she who rents it 
Is poor, and hath no management of land. 

Lord of T. She pays her rent as true as quarter- 
day. 
John. That rent is small : my price would yield 

you more. 
Lord of T. I would not do her wrong, she is a 

widow ! 
John. She is a widow only through their crime— 
Her husband died for murder — a foul murder. 
Done in this very field ! 

22 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



13 



Lord of T. This very field ! 

John. Yes, my good lord. Some nineteen years 
agone, 
Within a lonesome hollow of this field — 
A wandering pedlar was discovered, murdered. 
His ass, and all his little merchandise 
Were found within this woman's husband's shed 
The facts were clear against him, though he swore 
Unto the last that he was innocent — 
And as was just, he died upon the gallows ! 
But you are pale, my lord — you 're very pale! 
Lord of T. Pardon me, sir, my health is not the 

best. 
John. Well, sir, about the business of the field. 
Lord of T. The widow woman still shall hold 

the field! 
John, [laying a small bag before him] . But my 
good lord, to me it is an object — 
One hundred marks I '11 give you for the field. 
Lord of T. What doth this hold, sir ? is it gold or 

silver ? 
John. Gold, sir, each piece is gold ! 
Lord of T. One hundred marks ? — 

One hundred marks and ten, and it is yours ! 
John. Sir, every piece within that bag is gold ! 
Lord of T. One hundred marks and ten — I '11 

lake no less ! 
John. My notary is without — I '11 bring him in. 

[He goes out. 
Lord of T. I '11 not believe it ! Other men hud 
asses — 
And others might be murdered in that field ; 
Besides, if it were so, was it my crime' 
That the land's law did deal unjustly by him? 
Upon their heads, who heard him plead in vain. 
Shall be his innocent blood, and not on mine ! 

[He takes up the bag. 
Ha ! ha ! this wealthy purchaser has gold 
In plenty, if he thus can bribe. May be 
I have another little field will tempt him; 
But next time, I will have a better price — 
Now let me find a place wherein to store it ! 

[He considers for a few moments — then takes 
tip his keys, and goes to a small closet. 



SCENE IX. 

A chamber lighted by a small iron lamp, the lord of 
Torres in his night-cap and dressing-gotvn — a closet 
with an iron door is beside his bed, he has a bunch 
ofkeysinhisJiand. — E7Uer an old servant. 

Servant. Master, there is a woman at the door, 
And two small children ; they do cry for bread ; 
Only a little morsel ! 

Lord of T. Drive them hence ! 

A murrain on them ! 

Serv. I have warned them hence. 

But master, she is dying ; and the cry 
Of those poor little children wrings my heart! 

Lord of T. Liars they are and thieves ! Drive 
them away ! 



Serv. Master, good lack ! she will be dead ere 

morning ! 
Lord of T. Then elsewhere let her die ! Bethink 

you fool, 
'T would cost a noble, but to bury her ! 

Serv. [going out] Good lord ! and he such plenty ! 

Enter steward. 

Steward. The barns are full, my lord, and there 
is yet grain to be housed. 

Lord of T. The cost were great to build more 
barns — let it be housed under this roof. 

Slew. My lord ! 

Lord of T. To be sure ! the state-rooms are large 
and lofty — and to me they are useless, let them be 
filled ! 

Stew. What ! with the gilt cornices, and the old 
lords and ladies on the walls ! 

Lord of T. The same ! are they not well placed, 
so that a wain might approach without impediment ? 

Stew. It were a mortal sin ! 

Lord of T. I cannot afford to build new barns — 
remember the mildew last season, and the cow that 
died in March — these are great losses ! 

Stew. Well, my lord, the harvest is ready, it must 
be done quickly. 

Lord of T. A broad door-way making, will not 

cost much ; send me a builder to-morrow, and let us 

have an estimate — these people require being tied 

down to the fiirthing ! [TliC steward goes out. 

[The JjOrd of Torres unlocks his iron door, 

counts his bags, puts his keys under 

his pilloiv, and then lies down — after 

some time, he starts up. 

Fire! murder! thieves! my gold ! my iron chest! 

[He rubs his eyes, and looks around him. 
Was it a dream ? thank heaven, it was a dream! 
Then all is safe — my iron chest is safe ! 

[He feels for his keys. 
Ay, they are safe, the keepers of my treasures — 
Now let me sleep — I 've much to do to-morrow. 
I must be wary in this estimate. 
One-half the sum he asks will be enough ! 

[He lies down and sleeps. 
[An avful voice passes through the chamber. 

"Thou fool, this night thy soul will be required 
from thee ; then whose will those things be which 
thou hast provided ?" 



AcHZiB was abundantly satisfied with the result of 
his second temptation. He had watched the gradual 
strengthening of the passion ; the sealing up, as it 
were, of the heart against both God and man. 

" It was not," said Achzib, in great self-gratulation, 
" because ihe temptation was in itself strong, that I 
have this time been so successful, but especially be- 
cause the tempted was so wisely chosen. Human 
nature has a strange propensity to extremes ; he who 
wastes his patrimony with profligate indifference, 
and reduces himself to penury, is of all others the 
man to become insatiably avaricious. In proportion 
23 



14 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



as he lavished in yotilh, will he hoard up in age; 
the hand that throw awa)' thousands, will afterwards 
clutch at groats, — and, oh marvellous inconsistency! 
not from having learned the value of the good he 
has abused, but from a passionate lust of possession, 
which, like the extravagance of madness, seems to 
reverse the very nature of the man." 

"The world," continued Achzib, "has but little 
sympathy for the ruined spendthrift; men are slow 
in giving to him who has not taken care of his own 
— and thus they assist the reaction of his spirit. He 
talks of the faithlessness of friends, of the jeers and 
taunts of the world, and the triumph of enemies, till, 
exciting himself to hostility against his kind, he com- 
mences a warfiire upon it, and becomes its scourge 
and its shame. He gives not to the needy ; because, 
says he, in my need, none gave to me — and he gets 
all he can by (air means and foul, because in his 
abundance all, he believes, made a prey of him. Oh, 
most blind and senseless of passions I — he would even 
rob himself, to enrich his coffers — he would deny 
himself even sustenance, were it not that death 
would sever him from the god of his idolatry!" 

"And now," said Achzib, "I will try this passion 
in a modified degree, upon another and a nobler spirit. 
The sins of Thomas of Torres, comparatively Sf)eak- 
ing, were sins against society at large. My next vic- 
tim shall be taken from the bosom of affection ; he 
shall bring desolation upon the domestic hearth, and 
wither those souls in which he was bound up as in 
the bundle of life. To accomplish this, I must first 
sap, if not remove the barriers of sound principle. But 
once familiarize him with sin; but once induce him 
to sunder some one lie which has hitherto bound him 
to virtue, — no matter how slight it be, — the most im- 
portant work is done, and the remaining ties become 
loosened: for the first dereliction of duty, the first 
swerving aside from the integrity of virtue, is the act 
by which a human soul becomes the chartered vic- 
tim of evil." 

"The mere sordid miser," continued Achzib, recur- 
ring once more to his subject, " is a hateful spectacle. 
The toad hiding itself under a noisome stone, is not 
more hideous than his moral deformity ; but the dovvn- 
fiill of a nobler spirit, drawing, as it were, the sev- 
enth part of heaven afier it, in the darkened plea- 
sures, the wounded affections of all that clung to it, 
is an achievement worthy of the Prince of Darkness 
himself!" 



THE PIRATE. 



PERSONS. 

ALBERT LUBERG, THE PIRATE. 

MADAME LUBERG, HI.S MOTHER. 

CONSTANCE, HER NIECE, AND THE BETROTHED 

OF ALBERT. 
ACHZIB, THE CAPTAIN OF THE VESSEL. 
EDAH, A YOU.VG ISLANDER. 
SEAMEN, CREW OF THE WRECK, MERCHANTS, 

AND TOWNS-PEOPLE. 



SCENE I. 

A seaport city. — Evening. — A small mansion in the 
suburbs ; Constance sitting in a little TO<im, looking 
at a miniature. 

Constance. There is a faint resemblance— but so 
faint! 
And yet the eyes in colour are the same — 
So is the hair, with its thick clustering curls — 
And the fine oval of the countenance ; 
But oh, the mouth! no, no, it is not Albert's! 
And yet, when he is absent, I shall say 
'Tis like, 't is very like! Oh, how I wish 
This voyage were made! my heart has fearful au- 
guries ; 
And when I pray for him, my spirit takes 
All unawares such fervency of tone 
As terrifies myself. Great God protect him ! 

Enter mada.me luberg ; she sits down by Constance. 

Mad. L. I am the bearer of most heavy tidings! 

Cons. Is Albert dead ? 

Mad. L. Oh no, oh no, thank heaven ! 

Compared with that, my news is light indeed ! 
The sudden squall that came and passed at noon. 
Like lightning in its speed, loosened his vessel 
From its strong moorings, drove it out of harbour, 
And there, in half a moment, it went down! 
All, all is lost, not even a single bale 
Is come to shore! 

Cons. And any lives on hoard ? 

Mad. L. But two, the helmsman and a cabin-boy; 
The others were gone out by Albert's leave. 
To pass the day on shore. God help him now ! 
For there went down his all. — All, all was ventured 
In that one cargo ; he 's a beggar now ! 
No longer Albert Luberg the young merchant, 
On whom the old grey-headed men on 'Change 
Looked with respect 'cause fortune favoured him ! 
"S'et that was the least reason he should win 
A wise man's grace — was he not good and kind? 
A prudent, generous captain ; loved by all, 
And served with such devotion, that his crew 
Symbolled fidelity? and such a son! 
Oh, there is not a mother in the cily. 
But, when impressing on her child ils duty. 
Says, "be thou but a son like Albert Luberg!" 

[She weeps. 

Cons. This is our consolation, not our sorrow! 
God will not let him want a helping hand — 
He only tries him thus, to prove his virtue. 
But hark — his step ! Oh, 't is his step indeed ! 

Enter albert. 
Mad. L. God give thee comfort in this great af^ 
fliction. 
And make it work together for thy good ! 
Albert. Mother, your prayer is answered — so is 
yours. 
Dear Constance, for I see you have been weeping. 
Like my poor mother ; but you 've won from heaven 
Blessing for one unworthy as I am ! 

Cons. No, not unworthy, Albert ! But what bless- 
ing ? 

24 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



15 



Albert. Oh, you shall hear — it is a new romance ! 
Now listen. I was standing on the rocks, 
With m3' eyes fixed upon Ihe boiling spot 
Where my good ship went down, full of sad thoughts, 
When there came up a foreign gentleman, 
Drest in an antique garb. Awhile he stood 
With his eye fixed on me, and then he spake 
Some cruel words of passing condolence. 
Which I more briefly answered ; for my heart 
Lay with my sunken ship, nor had I mood 
To talk with any one ; so I went further, 
And took another station : there he came. 
And once again addressed me; " Sir," said he, 
" I am no stranger to your reputation — 
All men have heard the name of Albert Luberg, 
And from my soul I ever longed to serve him I" 

Mad. L. 'Twas very true, 'twas very true, my son ; 
Yet like 1 not these over-civil men. 

Albert. Kay, hear me on. To this I made reply, 
" Your good opinion flatters me too much I" 
To which he said, " Merit is difiident," 
And twenty other gracious common-places ; 
And so discourse went on: at length, said he — 
And here his voice assumed another tone. 
The blandest, the most winning e'er I heard, 
"Will you to sea again?" "Gladly," said I, 
" For diligence must give me fortune back: 
Those that are dearer unto m.e than life, 
Depend upon my labour." "Done!" said he, 
"You shall win fortune back ! now look you there; 
Beyond that point of rock, my vessel lies I" 
I looked, and in a distant cove descried 
A stately vessel lying at its anchor. 
" Yon ship," said he, " is mine, well-manned and 

freighted 
For a far port." 

Cons. And do you sail with him ? 

Albert. I do, dear love, even this very night 
If the wind favour, when the moon shall rise ; 
Soon after midnight will they weigh the anchor. 

Cons. And to what port? and who is this strange 
captain — 
And what the vessel's name? 

Albert. I was so chained 

By the strong fascination of his voice, 
I thought not of his name, nor of the vessel's; 
Our destination, is unto the east. 

Mad. L. It is a compact that comes o'er m.y heart 
Like evil influence. 

Albert. 'T is woman's fear 

Makes you desponding. If I went with Raphael, 
Like Tobit in old time, you would have fear 
And augury of ill I Heard you my friend. 
His easy gaiety, his frank good-humour, 
His almost fiitherly kindness for your son. 
You would not have one fear! 

But, dearest Constance, 
Here is a parting present, to console you 
When I am far away! 

[He holds up a chain of diamonds. 

Cons. No, not console me ! 

But Albert, whence came these? so beautiful, 
A dowry for an empress! 
3 D 



Mad. L. Here is wealth 

Might make thy vessel's loss of small account — 
Their value frightens me ! where came they from ? 

Albert. They are an earnest from my unluiown 
friend. 
Of my redeemed fortune. They were given 
For thee, dear Constance, with such pleasant raillery 
On woman's love of show, as made me envy 
The sportive keenness of his merry wit. 

Mad. L. God send it all for good ! But tell me 
now 
On what conditions, sail you with this man? 

Albert. On strange conditions truly, for himself; 
For me, without exception. Thus they run : 
That without bond, or even doit laid down, 
I shall become co-partner in the vessel, " 

Now and for ever, and in all her tradings 
Have equal share, with this sole stipulation. 
That I shall hold myself to him subservient. 
To this I have subscribed ; and by a notary 
It has been sealed and witnessed in due form. 

Mad. L. I like it not ! For in these sordid times 
Men do not willingly give up their profit 
Without equivalent. But God is good ! 
And He will guard you if you trust in him. 
My son, a mother's blessing be with thee ! 
But there are various little stores and comforts 
Which 't is your mother's privilege to furnish. 
I will go get these ready, though 't is late I 

[She goes out. 

Albert, [lakinff Constance's hand] Dear love, you 
look so pale, so very anxious ! 
Why are you thus cast down ? 

Co7is. Must we not part ? 

And then I have so many, many fears ! 
I say " amen " to all your mother uttered ; — 
I do not like this man ! 

Albert. Fear nothing, love 

Ere long I will return; and then, sweet Constance, 
You know your promise for that blessed time — 
Till then be happy, dear one ! laugh and sing 
As you were wont, and fill the house with gladness. 
As the birds fill the woods in summer time. 

Cons, [taking up the diamonds.] But these — I 
cannot wear them — take them back — 
I have a superstitious dread of them — 
They are like the thirty pieces in the scripture, 
The price of blood ! 

Albert. Oh, foolish, foolish girl ! 

But you shall wear them ! They are amulets — 
And will grow dim if I am false to you ! 

Cons. Oh, take them, take them hence ! they are 
so heavy ! 

[She falls on his neck and weeps. 

Albert. My dearest one ! look up, and let me kiss 
Away these idle tears. 

Cons. Oh, Albert, Albert! 

I know that we shall never meet again — 
I know that some great sorrow hangeth o'er tis — 
True love has ever a prophetic spirit ! 

Mad. L. [coming in.] Here is a messenger come 
down in haste 
To summon vou — the boat is at the quay 

25 



16 



HO WITTS POETICAL WORKS. 



Albert. Truly he keeps quick time !— The moon's 
not up — 
But we must part at last, — and farewell 's said 
As easily now as at another time. 
My dearest love, good bye ! 

Mother, God bless you ! 
Mad. L. Farewell, my son — May Cod Almighty 
bless you. 
[He looks vpon them wi/h great tenderness, 
then goes out, and shorthj after returns. 
Albert. I am a fool, a very cliildish fool, 
Thus to return to say " good bye " again ; 
But my heart yearned toward yon, and I obeyed it. 
Once more, dear mother, let me kiss thy cheek, 
And take once more thy blessing ! 

[He embraces her solemnlif. 

And, sweet love, [to Cons. 

Once more, once more farewell ! What ails my heart ? 

I never was so much a child before. 

Cons. May God in heaven bless you ! 

[Albert rushes out. 



There was another ere Noah began ; 

Who he was, tell me ? Tightly and strong 
Over the waters he went — he went, 
Over the waters he went. 

Who was the first sailor ?— tell me who can ; 

Old Father Jason ? — No, you 're wrong ; 
There was another ere Jason began ; 

Don't be a blockhead, boy ! Tightly and strong 
Over the waters he went — he went, 
Over the waters he went ! 



Ha! 't is nought but the poor little Nautilus — 

Sailing away in his ancient shell ; 
He has no need of a compass like us, 
Foul or fair weather he manages well ! 
Over the water he goes — he goes, 
Over the water he goes ! 



i 



SCENE H. 

Night. — A vessel on the mid seas ; a fine moon shining. 
— The watch on deck. 

1st Man. Now, messmate, can you understand 
what sort of a trip we are on ? 

2nd Man. Trading, I take it. Ar 'n 't we bound 
to the Indies ? 

1st Man. So they say ; but mark me if there is n 't 
some other scheme at bottom. Here have we been 
lacking about in these seas for the last fifteen days, 
and a steady wind blowing all the' time ! The old 
captain gives orders through the young one — the 
devil 's at the bottom of the business, I say. 

2nd Man. And let it be the devil himself!— while 
he gives the wages he does, and plenty of grosj, I '1| 
go round the world with him. Don't j-ou bother 
your brains with other ibiks' business; let's have a 
song! here 's mine without asking for, the jolly song 
of the devil at sea — 

" Let the winds blow " 

1st Man. Don't be singing that song for ever, or 
I'll take it for a bad token. — Can't yon give us a 
good hymn, or a song set to a hymn-tune ? 

2nd Man. Why, one might think you were grow- 
ing godly in your old age — ha ! ha ! ha ! — You 're 
mighty particular for a fellow that uses the can ! A I 
hymn-tune, on my conscience — ha! ha! ha! Well, 
here goes, then 

Who was the first sailor ? — tell me who can ; ' 

Old Father Neptune ? — No, you 're wrong ; 
There was another ere Neptune began ; 
Who was he ? tell me. Tightly and strong 
Over the waters he went — he went, 
Over the waters he went I 

Who was the first sailor ? — tell me who can ,• 
Old Father Noah ? — No, you 're wrong ; 



I Helmsman. Land a-head !— Down with you to the 
captains below, and don't keep dinning there with 
your cracked pipes ! 

E7iier the captain and albert. 
Cap. The isle I told you of! 't is in our reckoning, 
But 't is an undiscovered island yet 
By any but myself In my last voyage, 
Thus standing on the deck, helmsman myself 
And watch, I first discerned it on a night 
Radiant as this, yet do I claim it not — 
Yours be the honour of discovering it ! 
You shall first give the knowledge to the world 
Of a new paradise amid the sea. 

Albert. How bright the moonlight falls upon its 
shores ! — 
! What slumberous shades lie in those woody valleys — 
' What sky-ascending mountains, with white peaks 
Shining like silver spires ! — and what a weight 
Of spicy odour comes on every breeze! 
Oh, glorious land ! surpassing all my dreams 
Of Eden while the angels walked in it. 
But let 's cast anchor here — the soundings taken, 
Are seven fathom water wiih good anchorage. 
Cap. Let it be done ! 

[The anchor is cast — all hands crated on 
deck, eagerly looking out. — Morning be- 
gins to break — The Captain and Albert 
stand together on the forecastle. 
Cap. Now, friend, you will acknowledge your 
suspicion 
Has done me great injustice ! 

Albert. Pardon me ! 

I was indeed unjust — I was impatient 
Of our long wandering. — My brain grew weary 
With reckoning latitude and longitude. 
Month after month — beside, the crew began 
To have, like me, suspicions — and to murmur. 
But you must pardon me ! Give me your hand — 
I will not doubt you more ! 

Cap. [taking his hand eagerli/.] No, doubt me not 
Swear you will trust in me from this day forth ! 
Albert. I will — I will ; — and by yon glorious isle, 
I Over whose eastern summits kindles now 
J The splendour of the sunrise, I will swear 

26 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



17 



To serve you, but free confidence in you. 

Good heavens ! there hath a sudden cloud arisen 

Which hath obscured the morning ! 

Cap. You have sworn ! 

Now contemplate the island at your leisure. — 
■ IVow is he my sure victim, and lor ever ! [aside. 

Yon fairy isle will so subdue his soul 
With its luxurious pleasures — he no more 
Will be the chafed lion he has been ! [He goes below. 
[The morning shiries out, and the island 
becomes perfectly distinct. 

Albert. Beautiful island, rising out of darkness 
Like a divine creation, a new day 
Hath dawned upon thee, a momentous day 
Never to be forgotten, which v^ ill change 
Thy destiny for ever ! 

Hast thou sinned 
That God has taken away the sacred veil 
Which kept thy mountain tops concealed so long 
From eye of civilized man ? Oh innocent people ! 
The cup of knowledge now is at your lips. 
And ye will drink — ay, drink, and find it poison ; 
For in the train of civilization comes 
Sure ill, and but remote, uncertain good ! 

Strange is it, that my singular destiny, 
Under the guide of that mysterious man, 
Has led me only, of ten thousand voyagers, 
To this fair island ! Ah ! for what intent 
1 know not, evil or good — but this I know, 
It must be glorious — yes, it shall be glorious! 
I will return in triumph to my city. 
And make a splendid holiday with news 
Of this fair conquest from the unknown sea! 
But there they throng, the natives of the land. 
Gazing in eager wonder from the heights ! 

[He examines them through his glass. 
A noble race, in their unfettered beauty, 
As God first made them, with their mantle folds 
Descending to the knee, and massy armlets. 
And chains of twisted gold, pliant as silk ! 
And women, too, like goddesses of old. 
Or nymphs by some gloomed fountain ! 

Let's to land. 
The sun ascends ; and those cool-gladed woods 
Promise delicious rest. — Let's to the shore ! 



SCENE in. 

A beautiful rocky valley, crowned with palms, plan- 
tains, and all the rich and picturesque vegetation of 
tropical climates. 

The CAPTAIN and albert. 

Cap. Not satisfied ! Is three months' farriance 
Too little for your will ? 

Albert. Three little moons ! 

Why here one might live out an age of love. 
And count it as the passing of a day ! 
But you, by nature cold and anti-social. 
Can have no spark of sympathy with us! 
Choose you a bride from these sweet islanders, 



And in the lap of pleasure take your ease. 
Then will I leave the island at your bidding ! 

Cap. Fool that you are ! Mean you to tarry out 
Existence in this place ! Where is the glory 
Of bearing to your native port the tidings 
Of a new land ? where is the proud ambition 
That once was Albert Luberg's, to be great ? 
Have you ne'er thought upon a gentle maiden 
That sits beside your mother all day long, 
Shedding hot tears on her embroidery frame ; 
Waiting till she is sidv at heart for tidings ; 
Enquiring ship-news from all voyagers; 
And hoping until hope itself is dead ? 
If fortune, fame, ambition count as nothing ; 
Is love too valueless, save for a dusk 
Young beauty of the woods, who is a pebble 
Beside a kingly diamond, if compared 
With that fair mourning girl? Oh ! virtue, virtue, 
Thou art a mockery ; a base, gilded coin. 
That men buy reputation with ! 

Albert. No more! 

We will collect the seamen scattered now 
Over the island ; lay in fruits and stores 
Of all this most munificent land affords; 
And ere the moon, which now is in the wane, 
Shall be a silver thread, hoist sail and bear 
Over the waves away ! 

Cap. Let it be done. 

[They go forward. 



SCENE IV. 

A sylvan grotto, the floor covered with rick Indian mat. 
Albert asleep, with his head resting on the knees of 
Edah, a beautiful young native, who fans him with 
a gorgeous plume of feathers — she sings in a low, 
sweet voice : 

Little waves upon the deep 
Murmur soft when thou dost sleep ; 
Gentle birds upon the tree. 
Sing their sweetest songs for thee ; 
Cooling gales, with voices low 
In the tree-tops gently blow ! 
Dearest, who dost sleeping lie. 
All things love thee, so do I ! 

When thou wak'st, the sea will pour 
Treasures for thee to the shore ; 
And the earth in plant and tree. 
Bring forth fruits and flowers for thee ; 
And the glorious heaven above 
Smile on thee like trusting love! 
Dearest, who dost sleeping lie, 
All things love Ihee, so do I ! 

Albert, [opening his eyes.] 'Tis a sweet song, who 

taught it thee, my Edah ? 
Edah. Love taught it me— I made it as I sang. 
I ever think thus when I think of thee ! 
Thou art a song for ever in my soul ! 

Albert. My glorious Edah, thou art like a star 
Which men of old did worship ! 

27 



18 



HCWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Edah. Golden stars ! 

The wise men of our nation call them worlds, 
\Vhere happy spirits dwell — where those that loved, 
And those that have been wise and good, like thee, 
Live in delight, and never die again. 
I love the stars — the happy stars — dost thou ? 
Albert. All that is beautiful resembles thee, 
And what resembles thee I love, my Edah ! 
But know'st thou we must part? 

Edah. Why must we part ? 

Oh, no 1 thou said'st we would not part till death ! 

Albert. A spirit from my native land doth call — 
I may not disobey it ! 

Edah. When called it thee ? 

Albert. I hear it calling ever — I must hence ! 
Edah. Is 't death ? For on the eve my sister died 
I saw a shadowy phantom, and 1 heard 
Low voices calling — is it death thou hearest? 

Albert. No, no, my beautiful ! it is not death. 
But it is strong as death ! — In ray far land 
I have a mother who doth mourn for me, 
And ever, ever do I hear her voice ! 

Edah. Oh I I would leave my mother for thy sake ! 
Let me go with thee ! 

Albert. Sweet love, that cannot be ! 

Far, far we go beyond the setting sun ! 
I cannot take Ihee with me. Yon dark man 
That ever in the ship keeps by himself. 
Is a stern chief, — we dare not disobey him ; 
He would not let thee come on board with me ! 
Edah. Oh woe is me ! oh woe, oh woe is me I 
[She wrings her hands ?7i an agony of 
despair — Albert embraces her tenderly. 
Albert. My dearest love! my dark-eyed island 
beauty ! 
Look on me, Edah, listen to my words — 
Thou art the chosen bride of a white man. 
Be worthy of his love — this passionate grief 
Control, as I do mine ! 

Edah. Thou dost not love ! 

Thou couldst not lay thy life down for my sake — 
Oh thou art calm and cold, thou lovest not! 
I cannot live if I behold thee not; — 
Thou wilt live on — thou wilt love other maids. 
Wilt break their hearts as thou hast broken mine ! 
Albert. Heaven is my witness, that I love thee, 

Edah! 
Edah. My lord ! my lord ! swear not ! didst thou 
not swear 
Day afler day, that we should never part ? 
Thy words are like thy love, all perfidy ! 
Swear not, swear not, lest the great God be angry. 
And 'whelm thee in the deep. — Alas ! alas ! 
What a great grief is mine ! 

[She rushes from the grotto. 
Albert. Poor wounded heart 

Thy morning is o'erclonded — a great sorrow 
Will bow ihy youthful beauty to the ground. 
And thou wilt curse the day whereon we met I 
Kind, trusting spirit, I have done thee wrong! 

Enter the captain. 
Cap. What, are you tarrying still ! the girl is gone, 



The wind is fair, the seamen are aboard ; 
Sullen enough, yet they obey my orders. 
You only lag behind. 

Albert. Would we had never 

Broken the sleep of this fair paradise ! 
Sorrow and sin have entered, as of old 
They entered into Eden. 

Cap. Enough, fond fool. 

Of your pathetic whine ! who was this time 
The wily snake that robbed the gentle Eve 
With flattering lies, of her sweet innocence ? 

Albert. Nay, taunt me not! lead on, and I will 
follow ! 

[They go off together. 



SCENE V. 

TTie deck of the ship, all hands on board, anchor weigh- 
ed, and sails set — a crowd of natives on shore; wo- 
men tearing their hair and uttering loud lamenta- 
tion — a little boat puts off, rowed by Edah. 

Cap. Crowd sail ! let not yon liltle boat approach ! 
Albert. This moment slacken sail! lake in the 

canvas ! 
Cap. [aside] Blind fool of headlong passion, have 
your way ; 

[He folds his arms, and loohs sullenly on. 
The boat comes alongside — Albert 
throws out a ladder and descends into it, 
Albert. What now, my love, would'st thou ? 
Edah. Oh do not leave me ! 

Come back and see the grotto I have decked — 
Thou said'st thou loved'st the red-rose and the lotus, 
Come back and see how I have twined them for thee! 
Thou said'st thou loved'st the gushing, fragrant me- 
lon, 
I've sought the island o'er to find the best; 
Come back and eat it with me ! 

Albert. Oh, kind heart. 

It wounds my very soul to part with thee ! 
Edah. Each shell thou praised — pearl ones, that 
blush inside. 
And rosy corallines, I have collected — 
Oh come thou back! I would be slave to thee. 
And fetch thee treasure from the great sea-caves! 
I would do aught to win thee back again. 
Albert. Peace, peace! poor innocent heart, thou 

dost distress me ! 
Edah. Oh thou art angry, I have angered thee — 
I have said that which is unpleasing to thee ! 
Let me go with thee ! I will be thy sister ; 
Will watch by thee, when thou art sick or weary; 
Will gather fruits for thee ; will work bright flowers 
Into a mantle for thee : I will be 
More than a loving daughter to thy mother! 
Albert. Thou can'st not go ; but, my sweet island 
queen, 
I will return to thee ! now fare thee well ! 
Edah. Wilt thou, wilt thou indeed ! oh then fare- 
well 
For a short season. I will watch for thee 
For ever from the hills, and all night long 

28 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



19 



Keep a bright beacon burning! Oh come soon, 
And bring thy mother with thee — I will love her, 
Thou dost not know how I would love Ihj' mother.' 
Albert. But we must part ! so now my love, fare- 
well. [He embracer her. 
Edali. But tell me, tell me ! when thou wilt come 

back ! 
Albert. Soon, soon, O very soon — farewell, fare- 
well ! 

\_He springs again on deck — gives a sign, 
and the ship is put in motion. 
Edah. Oh take me ! lake me with you ! lor I know 
He never, never will come back again ' 



SCENE VI. 

Mid-seas — the deck of the ship — Albert and the Cap- 
lain stand toge/htr, vith glas.'ies in their hands — a 
ship is seen in the distance, slowli/ i7iaking way as if 
heavily laden. 

Albert. She is a goodly ship, well-built and large. 
But in her aspect she has something strange ; 
She walks the glittering waters wearily ; 
There is an air ol" desolation on her; 
If she were human, I should call her haggard I 
Cap. [to the seamen.] Quick, .slacken sail I we will 
join company! 

[He looks again through his glass. 
'T is a strange vessel, and a stranger crew ! 
They look like dead men risen from their graves! 
Albert, [speaking through a trumpet.] ^Vhat cheer, 
whence come, and whither are ye bound ? 
And why are ye so few, and ghastly all ? 

[No answer is returned, the ship sloidy 
takes in sail, and comes alongside. 
Albert. Oh heavens! they are like dead men ! 
Many weak voices from the ship.] Water I water ! 
Cap. Speak, «ne of you, whence come ? and 

w hat's your freight ? 
Man. Our cargo is of gold, and pearl, and diamond, 
A kingly freight, from India ; but we 're cursed ; 
The plague is in the ship! All, all are dead 
Save we, and we are twelve! Give, give us water! 
We have not had a drop for twenty hours ! 

Cap. [To Albert.] You see these men — 'twere 
merciful to kill them. 
They will go raging mad before to-morrow. 
And prey on one another, like wild beasts. 
And then the cargo! Think you what a freight — 
Gold, pearl, and diamond ! 

Albert. Nay, tempt me not — 

I cannot .shed their blood. I am no murderer! 
Cap. They '11 die ; and think ye not 't w ere mer- 
ciful 
To rid them of their miserable lives ? 

Albert. No, let them die, as die they surely must ; 
We will keep near them, and when all are dead, 
Possess the abandoned cargo ! 

Cap. As you will ! 

[Albert speaks with his seamen — the>/ 
crowd on sail icith alacrity, and the 
ship begins to move. 
3* 



Sailors of the plague ship. [ With frantic gestures. 
Oh give us but one little cask of water ! 
For God's sake give us water! 

[The ship moves off, and the sailors of 
the plague-ship are heard uttering 
dreadful imprecations. 



SCENE vn. 

A'ight — tliird night from parting with the ship — deck 
of Albert's vessel — vxitch on deck. 

\st Man. And all to have share and share alike 
in the plunder — why you can't say but that is lair 
enough ; and yet drown me, if I like the job! 

2nd Man. Neither do I! and yet if they 're dead, 
't will be neither robbery nor murder, and thev must 
be dead by this time. But somehow, it went against 
my conscience to leave 'em as we did : I warrant a 
cask o' water wouldn't have kept 'em alive a day 
longer. 

Isl Man. But th' old one said if they had water 
they would go raging mad, and eat one another. 

2nd Man. I say, did j'ou see the big fellow with 
the red eyes ? never saw I such a sight before ! 

\st Man. Well, the fearsomest thing I saw, and 
the .saddest, was a boy about as big as my Jack, with 
hands like claws, they were so wasted away, and a 
poor, yellow, deathly face, that set its patient lead- 
coloured eyes upon me, and for all the clamour, ne- 
ver said a word, but kept looking and looking, as if 
it had a meaning of its own, that I should know. 
Well, I'll tell you a secret : what, said I to myself, 
should it want but water, so I heaved up a can of 
water over to him, and I shall never forget his look, 
to my dying day ! My heart fairly sprung a leak — 
for what did he do with it ? he tasted not a drop him- 
self, but poured it into a poor fellow's mouth, that 
was lying gasping beside him — I guessed it was his 
father! 

2nd Man. Well, I '11 tell you what, I wish we had 
got it all over! It looks dismal to see that death-shij) 
always before us. But this is the third day, and as 
soon as morning breaks we shall come up with her 
and see what state she 's in. 



SCENE MIL 

Morning — they lay alongside the strange vessel — the 
crew still on board, icilh wild looks and makini; me- 
nacing gestures. 

ALBERT and the captaln' stand together. 
Albert. Not one of them is dead — how gaunt they 
look, 
How horribly ferocious, with clenched hands 
Like furious skeletons ! 

Cap. Board them at once. 

And cut them down at once, nor thus be mouthed at! 
Albert. Still, still you are a bloody counsellor! 
Cap. Well, if you still object unto the means. 
Let 's leave this wretched ship to rot at once, 

29 



20 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And give her cargo to the thankless deep! 
I 'm tired of dodging them — we might as well 
Be changed to greedy shariis as follow thus 
These wretches day by day ! 

Albert. I am perplexed 

Between the wish to have, and the repugnance 
To shedding human blood ! 

Cap. Let's spread the sail, 

And leave them to the sea — them and their gold ! 

Albert. No, no, we '11 have the gold ! 

Cap. You are a man ! 

Gold is too good to pave the ocean with. — 
Throw out the grappling-irons ! Board the ship, 
And end their miserable lives at once ! 

[A horrible scene ensues — the strange 
crew is murdered — the ship plunder- 
ed and set fire to. 



SCENE IX. 

Several hours afterwards — Albert's cabin ; he rushes 
in distractedly, throws his bloody cutlass on the floor, 
and flings himself upon a couch. 

A SAILOR enters hastily. 

Sailor. There is a woman on the burning ship! 
Albert. Oh save her, save her! by one act of 
mercy 
Let us atonement make to outraged heaven ! 

[The sailor goes out. 
Oh what a bloody wretch I am become, 
The ocean would not cleanse my soul again, 
Atonement never can be made to heaven ! 
Not even the blood of Christ could wash me clean! 
[He starts up, and sees himself i/i a mirror. 
My mother would not know me! no, no, no! 
And Constance would not know me! I am lost — 
The flames of hell are in my burning soul. 
The gold is cursed for which I did this thing, 
And { am cursed that yielded to temptation ; 
Give, give me drink — and let me murder thought, 
As 1 have murdered men ! 

[He flls a goblet several times and drinJis, 
then dashes the goblet to the floor. 

It tastes like blood! 
And wine will ever taste thus, so will water! 
The bread I eat will choke me ! 

I am mad! 
I am gone raging mad ! 

[He reels out of the cabin. 



«CENE X. 

The deck — Albert holding a young female hy the arm 
— Jewels and gold are scattered about. 

Albert. Thou say'st thy name is Angela — well — . 
well — 
Thou shalt be now the ongel of the ship! 
Shalt be my queen — my little ocean-queen ,- 
And I will deck thee in most regal fashion — 



Come, thou shalt have these diamonds on thy neck! 
[He takes up a necklace. 
Angela. Keep back thy horrid arm ! — Those 
diamonds! — 
Oh, sir, they were my mother's! If thou have 
A mother, I conjure thee by her love, 
Have pity on me ! If thou have a sister. 
Think of her innocence, and wrong me not ! 
Oh, thou art young! — thou must — thou must have 
pity! 
Albert. I have a mother — but she would not 
know me — 
The savage creatures are my kindred now! 
But I will love thee, Angela — will make 
Thee queen o' th' sea — I '11 wed thee with this ring ! 
[He attempts to put a ring on her finger. 
Angela. Away with thy unholy touch! away ! 

[She springs to the prow of the vessel. 
If thou but lay thy finger on my garment. 
The sea shall have a creature so polluted ! 
Stand ofl'I thou shalt not drag me from this place — 
Here will I die, if so the will of heaven! 

Albert, [turning aside, and pressing his hand on his 
forehead.] I 'm mad! I knew I was! — this 
throbbing pain 
Is madness ! — I have done a deed of hell, 
And God has cursed me for it ! — Angela ! 
I will not do thee wrong — poor friendless child, 
I will not do thee wrong ! [He staggers off the deck. 



SCENE XL 

Night — Albert's cabin, a dim lamp is burning — Albert 
appears asleep — a shriek is heard on deck, and a 
heavy phtnge into the sea — Albert starts up. 

Oh, gracious heaven, that is the woman's voice ! 
Where is she ? — where am I ? — Ah. I have slept 
A blood-polluted murderer, I have slept! 

Enter the captain. 

Albert. What shriek was that? — and where is 
Angela? 

Cap. Where plummet will not reach her ! 

Albert. Heariless wretch,— 

Dost say she 's dead with such a voice as that? 
If thou know'st aught of this, by all that 's sacred 
Thy life shall answer for 't! 

Cap. My hands are clean 

Of this girl's life! — But listen, and I '11 tell you — 
Your drunken wooing frightened her last night! 
Have you liirgot how, in her desperation, 
She stood, her wild hair streaming in the wind, 
And her pale countenance upturned to heaven? 

Albert. But she is dead ! 

Cap. Well, as she stood at eve 

Stood she at midnight, motionless, yet muttering 
A thousand quick-said prayers, with clasped hands. 
Like some carved image of immortal sorrow ! 

Albert. Cease, thou wilt drive me mad ! 

Cap. The loaded sails 

Dropped momently their heavy beads of dew 
30 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



21 



Upon the silent deck, meting out time 
As the clock's ticking; — still she stood, like death, 
The midnight dew in her black trailing hair, 
And the white moon upon her whiter face ! 

Albert. And I the while was taking senseless sleep! 

Cap. The drunken watch believed themselves 
alone; — 
They seized her in the darkness ; — from their grasp 
She sprang itito the waves, and sank for ever ! 

Albert. And thou saw'st this, and did not strike 
them dead ! . [He rushes out. 

Cap. I '11 let them settle it as they like best. 
'T was but to know if she were dead or living 
That the poor men approached her ! 

\He goes to an inner cliamher. 



SCENE XII. 

^igkt — tempest — thunder and lightning — the ship 
drives before tlie storm — Albert's cabin — Albert 
alone : 

Three days the storm has raged — nor is there yet 
Token of its abatement ! All is done 
That skill of man can do to save our lives ; 
The ship is lightened of her heavy lading — 
That cursed freight for which we sold our souls 
Has been cast overboard — yet rages still 
The fury of the tempest. 'T is a sign 
Of heaven's eternal punishment. — O sin, 
How are thy wages death! — But God is just, 

' And hath no mercy on us, who had none ! 
The very sea hath from her jaws cast forth 

' The murdered dead — she has made cause against us; 

1 Pale ghastly faces, cresting the fierce waters, 
Keep in the vessel's wake as if in mockery ! 
And groans and cries, and curses dark as hell. 
Howl in the tempest — and that woman's shriek, 
And the wild protestations of the men. 
Are ever in our ears I The ship is full 
Of terrible phantoms that pass to and fro. 
Keeping their eyes on me — they haunt him not — 
He has no mercy, no compunction either. 
And calmly sleeps as though he had not sinned — 
But if /sleep, in dreams they drag my soul 
With horrible compulsion to the pit! — 
There, there they stand ! I see them now around me! 
Oh, fearful speclres, fasten not your eyes 
On me with such a woful meaning ! Hence I 
I Hence! ye do blast my vision like the lightning! 
Stand off! stand off! ye do approach too near — 
The air is hot! I have not space to breathe ! 

[He rushe.i to the door, the Captain meets him. 
1 Cap. I heard your voice, you have got company? 

* Albert. Out of my way! — My blackest curse be 
oh thee : 
' am a damned sinner through thy means ! 
Cap. Peace, peace ! your passion overmasters you ! 
Albert. Have I not need to curse thee to thy 

K face ? 



Thou hast brought, misery on me I I am dyed 
Black in eternal shame — The fierce purgation 
Of everli»sting fire would cleanse me not! 

Cap. Come, come, my friend, we 've had too much 
of raving ! 
Are we never to meet without these squabblings? 
I 'm tired of them, and I have tidings for you — 
The rain has ceased, the tempest is abating ; 
The moon is struggling through the broken clouds. 
We shall have calm anon, and gain a harbour. 

Albert. Tempest or calm is all alike to me : 
Harbour I seek not — give annihilation — 
An everlasting hush, and I will bless thee! 

[He goes out — the Captain follows him. 



SCENE XIII. 

7'Ae vessel floating without mast or rudder— famine on 
board — the crew mutinous — Albert and the Captain 
apart from the rest — Albert sits with his head resting 
on his hand, and his eyes fixed as if in unconscious- 
i}ess — a violent struggle is heard on the distant pari 
of the deck, and a body falls. 

Albert. What miserable sound of mortal strife 
Was that I heard e'en now 1 

Cap. Two famished wretches 

Strove for a mouse, and one halh killed the other — 
And now they fight like tigers for the body ! 

Albert. Oh, horrible ! Vengeance is with us now! 
Wliat further consummation can there be ? 

[He advances along the deck with difficulty ; 
the seamen are eagerly stripping the body. 
Albert. My brethren in affliction, sin not thus; 
Touch not that flesh, lest God abandon you ! 

Mate. There is no bread ! — there is no drop of 
•water ! 
These cannot speak for thirst — nor shall I long — 
If you have water, give it us ! 

Albert. Alas! 

I have it not — I shared the last with you ! 
Mate. Then let us have the boat, and save our- 
selves ; — 
Some land is near, for many flights of birds 
Have passed us since the morning. 

Albert, [aside.] Still that prayer ! 

If they reach any shore, I am undone! 
But 'tis impossible ! — their feeble arms 
Could not sustain the oars — and without compass 
They cannot gain the land — I 'm safe from them ! 
[aloud] Well, take the boat — ye can but die at last! 
[The boat is launched in silence, and tvith 
difficulty — they throw in their blankets, 
and all lake their seals except the mate. 
Mate. Now, sir, wc want a compass — there are two 
Down in the cabin. 

Albert. There is only one. 

And that ye shall not have ! 

Filate. Then be our blood 

Upon )-our head — and may the fiend keep with you ! 
[They row off in silence. 
31 



22 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SCENE XIV. 
AlberCs city — two merchants on 'Cliange. 

1st Mer. I've seen the men myself, and heard 
their story, 
In number they are seven — a ghastly crew, 
Like waiiting corpses from a charnel-house \ 
Their lips were black and shrivelled, and their jaws 
Hung like the stiffened jaws of a dead face. 
For thirteen days they had not tasted food ; 
They now are lodged within the hospital ; 
And I have heard their dreadful history. 
More horrible than their condition ! 

2ik1 Mer. How ? 

Be quick, and tell us how ? 

1st Mer. It doth involve 

The credit of a well esteemed house : 
They are the remnant of a crew that sailed 
With Albert Luberg, on that latal night 
When, by a sudden tempest wrecked, his ship 
Went down without the harbour. On that night. 
As you perhaps have heard, for it was talked of; 
He joined himself unto a foreign captain. 
And sailed, no one knew whither. 

'2nd Mer. And what llien ? 

\st Mer. This captain was a pirate, and these men 
Tell such a horrible story of their deeds 
As makes the blood run cold ! 

2)id Mer. But Albert Luberg 

Could not turn pirate ! 'Tis a base assertion ! 
These fellows have been mutinous, and now 
Would blast the honour of a worthy man ; 
They are a lying crew — I'll not believe it! 

\st Mer. Nay, hear the men yourself! You'll 
not detect 
The semblance of a lie — 'tis a calm story; 
Made, by their separate testimony, sure. 
But here comes one whom I did leave with them. 
Ask him, and he will tell you this, and more. 

Zrd Mer. [coming tip.] Well sir, I 've heard this 
doleful story through. 
And fresh particulars which you heard not. 
It is a fearful tale ; and yet is full 
Of a most wholesome lesson, which will preach 
Unto the sinner that the arm of God 
Is still stretched out to punish, let him strive 
Against it as he will — for this poor wretch. 
Though he refused a compass to these men. 
That they might reach no shore to implicate him, 
Shall find his cruel wi.sdom ineffectual, 
For they were guided by the arm of God 
Over the pathless waters, to this port. 
That so his infamy might be perfected ! 
For them the sea grew calm — and a strong gale 
Impelled them ever forward without oars. 
Which they were all unfit to ply — their sail 
A tattered blanket! 

2nd Mer. Ah, my heart dolh ache 

To think of his poor mother, that good lady 
Who ever lived in blameless reputation ! 
And then her niece, the gentle, orphaned Constance ! 



Ist Mer. I know they had misgivings — for his 
mother 
Took to her bed in grief for his departure. 
And Constance hath shunned company since then. 

2nd Mer. Alas, 'twill break their hearts, they 
loved him so ! 

Alh Mer. [coming up.] I would consult you on 
this dreadful business 
Of Albert Luberg — Were it not most right 
To send a vessel out to meet with him ? 
He cannot be far distant, for these men 
Came hither in five days in their poor boat ! 

ord Mer. If he were in another hemisphere, 
It were but right to follow him, for justice! 

\st Mer. And is not the great will of God revealed 
In the miraculous saving of these men ? 

4i'/i Mer. We are agreed then ! Let us find a ship 
Fit for this service, lightly built and swift. 
Which may pursue him round the world itself 

\st and ord Mer. 'T is a right judgment ! 

2nd Mer. Ah, poor Madame Luberg ! 

[They all go ojf together. 



SCENE XV. 
Street — o crowd assembled. 

\st Man. He was brought in this morning. 

2nd Man. Did you see him ? 

\&l Man. No, but I saw the wreck he was taken 
from — nothing but a Black, weather-beaten hull ; it 
lay like an old boat on the water, you viould have 
said it would go to pieces with every wave, and yet 
the timbers were all sound — they said it had not 
sprung a leak, nor would have perished for months. 

3rd Man. And have they got them both ? 

\sl Man. Only Luberg ; the other got oflfi nobody 
knows how, — they say he is the devil ! 

2nd Man. Lord have mercy on us I 

[The crowd increases. 

Alh Man. Well, I 've seen him — and I wish I had 
never set eyes on him! Oh, he 's a bad man! he 
has a horrid look — and I remember him a proper 
young man, and the handsomest that went out of 
harbour ! 

5/A Man. Rut he was dying of hunger when they 
picked him from the wreck — they say a child would 
outweigh him ! poor fellow ! 

6//i Man. Do you pity him, a bloody pirate ! 

5/A Man. Oh but you havn't seen his face as I 
have ! He is like a withered old man, and has such 
a look of misery ! God help him ! 

\st Man. And what's to be done with him ? 

&lh Man. They say he will be hung in irons on 
the wreck, and then all will be sunk together! 

Ith Man. 'T is no more than he deserves ! 

bik Man. If all had their deserts, who would es- 
cape the gallows ? 

3rd Man. Let 's go look at the wreck. 

Several. Let's go! [They disperse. 

33 






THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



23 



SCENE XVI. 

A small, dark cell in a prison — Albert heavily ironed, 
is sealed upon straw ; he is haggard and wild in 
appearance, with his eyes cast dow7i as if stupijied. 
The door slowly opens, and Constance, in deep 
mourning, enters ; she seals herself on a bench near 
him, looks on him in silence and weeps ; Albert 
slowly raises his head, and gazes at her for some 
time before he appears to recognise her. 

Albert. I dare not speak tlie name, but is it thou? 
Cons. Oh Albert, Albert! 

Albert. Canst thou speak my name? 

Do ye not curse me, thou and my poor mother ? 

[He bows his head to his knees, and weeps 
bitterly. 
Cons, [kneeling beside him.] Oh God ! who art a 
father to the afflicted. 
Who art a fount of mercy — look on him ! 
Pity and pardon him, and give him peace. 
Oh Chri.st ! who in thine hour of mighty woe. 
Didst comfort the poor thief upon the cross. 
Bless the bowed sinner in his prison-house ! 

Albert. Thou angel of sweet mercy ! woe is me ! 
Sorrow hath left its trace upon thy cheek — 
I am a cursed spoiler, who was born 
To wring the hearts that loved me ! — oh my mother! 
My gracious mother ! is she changed as thou ? 
Cons. Thy mother ! ask not, Albert, of tliy mother. 
Albert. Ah, she does not forgive me ! nor will 

God! 
Cons. Albert, thy mother's dead — and her last 
words 
Were prayers for thee ! 

Albert. Then I have killed my mother ! 

Oh blood ! blood, blood ! will my poor soul be never 
Freed from the curse of blood ! 

Cons, [taking his hand.] Albert, be calm, 
'T was by the will of God, that that dear saint 
Went to her blessed rest — I mourn her not — 
I do rejoice in her eternal peace ! 

Albert, [looking on the hand of Constance.] I dare 
not press it to my longing lips — 
There is pollution on them — they have sworn 
False oaths — they have by cruel, flattering lies, 
Lured to destruction one as true a* thou ! 
There is a gentle, a meek-hearted maiden 
Burning her nightly beacon of sweet woods 
Upon the peak of a fair, palmy isle. 
To guide me o'er the waters ! long ere this 
She must have pined, and pined — and she will die 
Heart-broken I Constance, do not look on me — 
For thou wilt curse me, hate me, spurn me from thee. 
I am a monster, dost thou fear me not ? 
Have they not told thee of my cruel sins ? 

Cons. Albert, I fear thee not — I mourn for thee. 
I knew that thou hadst sinned, but I forgave thee ! 
May God forgive thee, and support that maiden! 
Albert. Thou art not woman, Constance, tho u art 
angel! 
Ah, there were days when we two sate together, 
E 



Glad, innocent spirits ; whea from the same prayer- 
book 
We made the same responses, and our eyes 
Traversed the page together, save when mine 
Glanced from the book upon thy gentle cheek. 
And watched it crimson, conscious of my gaze ! 
Ah, I was guiltless then! and then my mother 
Gave me the holy book to read to her. 
Eve after eve. — Oh then I loved that book. 
And holy things — then heaven seemed just before me. 
Death an immeasurable distance off! 
Now death stares in my face — a horrid death i 
And heaven — oh, I am damned ! I have no hope ! 

Cons. Say not, dear Albert, that thou hast no 
hope ! 

Albert. I have no hope — I tell thee, I have ntmel 
It were abusing mercy to extend it 
To such a wretch as I ! 

Cons. But cry to God 

For pardon, for repentance : he will hear thee! 

Albert. I cannot pray — my tongue has cursed so 
long 
I have forgot the words men use in prayer! 

Cons. Dear Albert, now I fear thee — thou art 
frantic ! [She rises. 

Albert. Nay, leave me not ! Oh do not, do not 
leave me ! 
When we part here, we ne'er shall meet again — 
That great impassable gulf will lie between us ! 

Cons. Oh Albert, promise me to pray to God — 
Christ died, thou know'st, Ibrsinnere! 

Albert. My good angel. 

Would that my judge were pitiful as thou ! 

[A rattling of keys is heard outside the 
door, it opens, and the gaoler enters. 

Gao. The chaplain is without, and he would pray 
Yet once more with the prisoner. 

77je CHAPLAIN enters. 

Cons, to Albert. Now, now farewell ! 

And may Almighty God look down and bless thee ! 
Albert, [wildly] Farewell, farewell! we shall meet 
never more ! 
It is a farewell for eternity ! 

[Constance, overcome by her feelings, is 
supported out by the chaplain. 



Achzib made his escape from the pirate-ship in 
some way which eluded all detection. He did not, 
however, think it expedient to enter again the sea- 
port ; andas all places were alike to him, with this 
exception, he resigned himself to chance, and took 
up his abode in the first considerable city he came to. 
lie was so <?xtravagantly elated with his success, 
that he carried himself with so self-satisfied an air as 
to attract the notice of every one. Some said ho 
was newly come into possession of a great fortune, 
and that money, and the importance it gained for 
him, were so novel as to have turned his head ; some 
said he was the little-great man of a small town, 
where his consequential airs were mistaken for marks 

33 



24 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



of real greatness ;— others said he was a travelling 
doctor, who had just taken out a new patent : — while 
others took him for a marvellously wise philosopher, 
who, thinking of anything rather than himself, had 
acquired this ridiculous carriage in sheer absence of 
mind ; — and others again, supposed him to be a poet, 
inflated with the success of a new poem. 

Achzib, in the meantime, thinking he had done 
enough for the present, determined to have an inter- 
val of rest. He accordingly took a large house, fiir- 
nished it sumptuously, and began in reality to be 
looked upon as somebody. He did not, it is true, 
hold much intercourse with the citizens, though he 
was a most munificent patron of boxers, wrestlers, 
and all kind of prize-fighters and gamblers. He oc- 
casionally went on 'Change too, and circidated now 
and then some spurious lie or other ; which, derang- 
ing all money business, while it made the fortunes 
of a few, was the ruin of many. He had considera- 
ble dealings also with the usurers ; and keeping a 
pack of hounds and a noble stud of horses, found oc- 
cupation enough both for day and night. To diver- 
sify his employments he dabbled in judicial astrology, 
and the favourite pursuits of the old alchemists. He 
repeatedly asserted that he had mixed tlie Elixir 
Vitae, and also that he could compound the Philoso- 
pher's-stone. They who heard this, had an easy way 
of accounting for the money that he appeared always 
to have at command ; but he himself well knew that 
every stiver was drawn from the bags of the usurer, 
though never destined to find their way back again. 

The life Achzib led, was much to his mind ; he 
Jold lies with the most truthful face in the world, and 
cheated in so gentlemanly a style, that he might per- 
haps have maintained this life much longer, had he 
not been accidentally tempted to his fourth trial. 

He was on the Prada, or place of public resort, and 
seeing two grave persons in deep discourse together, 
and who seemed unconscious of all that surrounded 
them, he took a seat near, hoping to hear some secret 
worth knowing or telling. Their conversation, how- 
ever, was entirely of a moral or religious nature ; and 
Achzib would soon have been weary of it, had they 
not branched off to the subject of temptation, and the 
habits of mind which render a man peculiarly assail- 
able by it. 

" For instance," said the one, "old age, if beset by 
temptation, could but inadequately resist it, for the 
mind becomes enfeebled with the body. Youth may 
be inexperienced and volatile ; middle age engrossed 
by the world and its pursuits ; but is it not the noble 
enthusiasm of the one, and the severe uprightness of 
the other which makes them often superior to their 
trials ; and which of these does the weakness and 
despondency of old age possess ?" 

" But," rejoined the other, " the passions have 
ceased to stimulate in old age. Ambition, love, and 
avarice, are the temptations of earlier life. Men do 
not become suddenly vicious in old age, for the habits 
of mind and body in men becoine part and parcel of 
themselves; and, if through life these have been 
regulated by principle, I say not religion, they will 
preserve age, if it were assailed by temptation, as 



effectually as the higher motives of more vigorous 
life." 

" True," replied the first speaker, " if the trial 
came only through the medium of the passions; but 
though a man may have arrived at old age unpol- 
luted by outward sins, yet the temper of his mind 
may be the very opposite of virtue. He may doubt 
tlje goodness of God, though his life has been one 
series of mercies; he may be obstinately uncheered 
by his love, and unawakened by his daily Provi- 
dence. A murmuring, morbid doubting of God's 
goodness is the peculiar weakness of such a mmd — 
and the human being who can have passed through 
life, and at last retains such a spirit, is neither guilt- 
less of sin, nor unassailable by temptation." 

" But such a case," replied the other, "is extremely 
rare. Old age finds a natural aliment in religion ; 
and as its ties to the earth are sundered, the very 
necessities of its nature unite it more closely with 
heaven." 

" Such a case," persisted his friend, " may be rare, 
but alas, it is not beyond the range of human experi- 
ence ; and the peculiar prayer of such a spirit should 
be, ' lead me not into temptation !' " 

"Oh, but," exclaimed the other, with holy enthu- 
siasm, " God, who is boundless and long-suflering in 
mercy, and who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, 
will keep such feeble spirit from trial beyond his 
strength; or in his loving-kindness will extend the 
hand of his mercy to save him, even as the sinking 
apostle was sustained when his faith liiiled him upon 
the waters !" 

Achzib rose up before the conclusion of this last 
observation ; taking great praise to himself that wise 
men, such as he, gathered up their advantage from 
even the casual conversation of two strangers. 



THE OLD MAN. 



PERSONS. 

OLD MAN. 

MARG.MIET, HIS DAUGHTER. 
UGOUN, THE SUITOR OF MARGARET. 
ACHZIB, A STRANGER. 

It 

SCENE I. 

A umall Jwnse just wilJiout the gate of the city — an 
old and much enfeebled paralytic, silting by his door 
in the sun. 

Old Man. Supported by Eternal Truth, 
Nature is in perpetual youth ; 
As at the fir.st, her flowers unfold. 

And her fruits ripen in the sun. 

And the rich year its course doth run; 
For nature never growelh old! 
A thousand generations back 

Yon glorious sun looked not more bright, 
Nor kept the moon her silent track 

More truly through the realms of night! 
34 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



oji 



Oh, nature never groweth old. 


Tell me, — I fain would go, 


The Eternal arm doth her uphold! 


For I am wearied with a heavy woe! 


She droopeth not, dfith not decay ; 


The beautiful have left me all alone ; 


Is beautiful as on the day 


The true, the tender, from my path are gone! 


When the strong morning-stars poured out 


Oh guide me with thy hand. 


Their hymn of triumph at the birth. 


If thou dost know that land. 


Of the young, undeclining earth, 


For I am burihened with oppressive care. 


And all the sons of God did shout 


And I am weak and fearful with despair! 


In their immortal joy to see 


Where is it? tell me where? 


It bound into immensity! 


Thou that art kind and gentle, tell me where ? 


But man, for whom the earth was made, 




A feeble worm, doth droop and fade! 


Friend, thou must trust in Him who trod before 


Those fleecy clouds, like hills of heaven, 


The desolate paths of life ; 


To them is constant beauty given ; 


Must bear in meekness as he meekly bore 


This little flower which at my feet 


Sorrow, and pain, and strife ! 


Springs up, is beautiful and sweet — 


Think how the son of God 


A thousand years, and this poor flower 


These thorny paths hath trod ; 


Will be the same as at this hour! 


Think how he longed to go. 


But man, who as a lord is placed 


Yet tarried out for thee the appointed woe : 


Amid creation, what is he? 


Think of his weariness in places dim. 


A thing whose beauty is defaced 


When no man comforted nor cared for him ! 


By age, by toil, by misery! 


Think of the blood-like sweat. 


Wherefore that proud inielligence; 


With which his brow was wet. 


That discontented, reasoning sense 


Yet how he prayed, unaided and alone. 


Which keeps him restless, and doth send 


In that great agony, " Thy will be done !" 


His struggling thought through depth and height; 


Friend, do not thou despair. 


Which makes him strive to comprehend 


Christ from his heaven of heavens will hear thy 


The Eternal and the Infinite? 


prayer ! 


Wherefore this immaterial being 


Old Man. My daughter, thou hast brought me 


Which with the body is at strife ; 


back. 


This powerful pulse of inward life, 


For I have erred ; my soul is weak, 


Which ever feeling, hearing, seeing. 


It ever leaves the righteous track, 


Finds nothing that can satisfy? 


Some dangerous, darker path to seek ! 


Better methinks, the eagle's wing. 


God pardon me if I have sinned ! 


Which bears it where its soul would spring, 


But my impatient soul doth long 


Up to the illimitable sky! 


To leave this weary flesh behind. 


Better the desert-creature's might. 


And be once more the young, the strong ! 


That makes its life a strong delight, 


And when I see, untired, unspent. 


Than this unquiet bosom-guest 


How nature keeps her loveliness, 


That fills man's being with unrest! 


Like some strong life omnipotent, 


Time was, my life was bright as theirs; 


I do abhor my feebleness ; 


Time was, my spirit had no cloud — 


And marvel whence it is man's frame, 


But age the buoyant frame has bowed. 


That shrines a spirit strong and bold, 


And gloomed rny soul with many cares! 


Which hath a proud, immortal aim. 


Oh youth, how I look back to thee, 


Becomes so bowed and feebly old ; 


As to an Eden I have lost; 


Why he keeps not his manhood's strength 


Thy beauty ever haunteth me 


Maturely stately, filled with grace. 


As an unquiet, lovely ghost. 


And rich in knowledge, till at length 


Which in my arms I would enfold, 


He goes to his appointed place ; 


But thou elud'st my feeble hold I 


Can God delight or beauty see 


But hark! my daughter singeth now! 


In age's dark infirmity ? 


Sweet words are ever on her tongue. 


Take, take me hence I I am grown weary ! 


And a glad kindness lights her brow: 


Lite is a prison, dark and dreary! 


No wonder is it, she is young! 


Oh that my soul could soar away 


[The ^nund of a v;Jieel is heard within, 


Up to the imperishable day. 




And drink at ever-living rills. 


and a voice singing : 


And cast behind this weary clay. 


There is a land where beauty cannot fade, 


This life of never-ending ills! 


Nor sorrow dim the eye ; 




Where true-love shall not droop nor be dismayed, 


But who comes here ? I know him not. 


And none shall ever die! 


Or if I did, 1 have forgot ; 


Where is that land, oh where? 


My senses are so feeble grown. 


For I would hasten there ! 


I know not now whom I liave known ! 



35 



26 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Enter a stranger. 
Strang. Friend, I would lake a seat by you awhile, 
I'm weary with the travel of to-day. 

Old Man. What, are you weary with the jour- 
neying 
Of one short day ? Are you not hale and strong? 
Methinks you scarcely are past middle life — ■ 
When I was yoitr age, I was never weary ! 

Strang. I do believe you, friend : I can see traces 
Of vigour that has been ; and I have heard 
Of your herculean strength, long years ago. 

Old Man. Ay sir, I have been young, but now 

am old ! 
Strang. There was no wrestler like you, no 
strong swimmer 
Could breast the billows with you ; you could run 
Up to the mountain summit like the goat. 
Bounding from crag to crag — you followed then 
The shepherd's healthful calling, and were known 
Both near and far, as a bold mountaineer. 

Old Man. You had not knowledge of me in my 

youth ? 
Strang. No, but I oft have heard you spoken of. 
As so excelling in athletic sports, 
Men made a proverb of you ; afterward, 
You served your country in its bloody wars, 
And seconding your valour by your arm. 
Did miracles of bravery. 

Old Man. All is over! 

Old age has crippled me. I am sunk down 
Into the feeble, wretched thing you see ! 
Why was I not cut down in that strong prime ? 
I loathe this weary wasting, day by day — 
I am a load on others as myself! 

Strang. Age, my good friend, is dark, dark and 
unlovely: 
'Tis no new truth discovered yesterday ! 

Old Ma7i. I see the young men glorying in their 
strength ; 
I see the maidens in their graceful beauty. 
And my soul dies within me at the thought 
That they must fade, and wither, and bow down, 
Like me, beneath the burthen of old age ! 

Strang. It is a gloomy lot that man is born to ! 
God deals not kindly in affiicting thus; 
There can be no equivalent for age ; 
Would not the monarch, stricken by the weight 
Of fourscore years and their infirmities. 
Buy youth from the poor peasant at the price 
Of twenty kingdoms ? Life should have been given 
Methinks, exempt from miserable decay ; 
Enough that we must lay it down at last. — 
But you are silent, friend ! Have I not struck 
Into the very current of your thoughts ? 

Old Man. I know not if such thoughts be wise 
and good ; — 
My flesh is wenk, and doth so warp my spirit. 
That I have murmured thus; — but God is wise! 
I know that he afflicts us for our good. 
And this I know, that my Redeemer liveth ; 
And though the worm this body shall devour. 
Mine eyes shall yet behold Him when this mortal 



Shall have put on its immortality! 

Lord, I believe — help thou mine unbelief! 

Strang. Why, what an inconsistency is man ! 
This moment you were murmuring — now you take 
Another kind of language, altogether ! 

Old Man. I told you I was weak ! I do abhor 
Old age, which so enfeebles and chains down 
My spirit to this miserable matter. 
But I doubt not that God is strong to save j 
And if I keep my trust in him imbroken, 
He, after death, will crown me as a star, 
With an imperishable youth and glory ! 
But I am weak, and age doth wake in me 
A spirit of impatience which is sin ! 

Strang. This iearful spirit of despondency 
Which whispers " this is sin, — and this — and this!" 
Is part of the infirmity of age ; 
Does not the young man, vigorous in his body. 
Think, speak, and act without such qualms of fear? 
You, in the free exuberance of youth 
Went on rejoicing, like a creature filled 
With immortality of strength and beauty; 
But as the body, so the spirit weakens, 
And thus becomes a feeble, timid thing! 
Old Man. I know it ! — I have known it all too 

long! 
Strang. Seven years you 've been in this most sad 

condition 

Old Man. I have — and I was threescore years 
and ten 
When this infirmity first fell upon me. 

Strang. It is a great age, seventy years and seven; 
And seven years more you may remain on earth ! 
Old Man. Oh, Heaven forbid, that I for seven 
years more 
Should drag on this poor body ! — yet my life 
Is crowned with mercies still ! 

Slrajig. How so, my friend ? 

I did suppose you had no mercies left, 
I thought that they and youth all went together. 

Old Man. I have a child,— the child of my old age. 
My sons went to the dust in their bright youth — 
Daughters I had — but they too were, and are not ! 
But God was pleased to spare unto my age 
This youngest born — this dutiful, dear child, 
Who doth so tend my miserable decay. 
Winning a decent livelihood by toil ! 

Strang. I 've seen her, she is fair to look upon: 
'Tis much she hath not left you for a husband ! 
Old Man. Oh, you know not my daughter, to 
speak thus ! 
Is she not dutiful ? — She hath put off 
Year after year, the day of her espousals, 
That she might tend on my decrepitude ! 

Strang. I do bethink me now — she is betrothed 
To the young pastor of a mountain people ; 
I 've heard it spoken of — I 've seen him too ; 
He is a pale and melancholy man. 
Who reads his Bible, and makes gloomy hymns — 
Your daughter often sings them to her wheel. 

Old Man. Ah, me! his crossed affection clouds 
his spirit. 
And doth impair his health, not over strong ! 

36 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



27 



And thus I know that while my life endures 
I must divide two loving, tender hearts ! 
But if you heard him pouring forth his failh, 
His happy, Christian fjith, in burning words, 
And saw his cheerful life, you ^vould not say 
He was a melancholy man ! 

Strang. Vv'ell, well, 

I do not doubt the man is good and kind, 
And in your presence wears a happy face. 
But I have seen him in his mountain-valley, 
When the dark fit is on him, sad enough ! 

Old Man. God help me ! I have sundered them 
too long ! 

Strar.g. True, it must ever wound a generous 
nature 
To know it is a bar to others' bliss! — 
But see, the evening cometh down apace. 
I must depart — but if you will permit me, 
Since I have business which within the city 
Will keep me for a season, I will come 
And have some profitable talk with you ; 
For with old age is wisdom — and instruction 
With length of days : — thus said the wise of yore. 

Old Man. Come you, and welcome ; — I but rarely 
see 
The face of any one, for few prefer 
The converse of the old — they say forsooth, 
His faculties are darkened with his years ; 
What boots it talking to so old a man ! 

Strang. Good night, my venerable friend, — be 
sure 
I hold it as a privilege to talk 
With an experienced, ancient man like you. 

[He goes. 

Old Man. A proper cordial spirit ! a prime spirit ! 
He must have aged parents whom he serves 
With dutiful respect, and my grey hairs 
Are reverenced for their sakes ! So was youth taught 
When I was young ; we scoffed not at the old, 
Nor held them drivellers, as youth does now ; 
This generation is corrupt, and lax 
In good morality ; — saving my daughter 
And Ugolin, none reverence my years. 
Alas, the thought of them brings bitter pangs 
Across my soul ! — This man knows Ugolin, 
And saith he has his melancholy hours — 
Perchance mj' cheerful daughter has hers tool — 
Too long I 've sundered them, for that they mourn: 
What do I know but 'neath this show of duty 
They wish me dead I — Ah, no ! it is not so ; 
Shame on myself for harbouring such a thought ! 

MARGARET comes out. 

Marg. Father, the sun is sinking 'neath the boughs 
Of yonder lime — and see, the gilded dome 
Within the city now is lighted up; 
'T is late, my father, and the evening air 
Will chill thy frame! — Give me thy hand, dear 

father, 
And lean on me, I will support thee in. 
Old Man. Nay, 't is not chill I these summer eves 

are warm ; 
Let me enjoy the sun while yet I can. 

4 



Thou 'rt young — thou 'It live to feel it many years — 
Sit down beside me, child ! 

Marg. Thou hadst a guest 

Holding long converse with thee. I was glad, 
For there is little to divert thy thoughts 
In this dull place — no horsemen pass this way; 
And since the road was cut beneath the mountain, 
But rarely a foot-traveller. Whence came he ? 
Was he some scholar travelling in these parts — 
Or came he from the city ? 

Old Man. I scarce know ; 

Something he said of dwelling in the city. 
But what, I have forgot ; my memory fails me, 
I am a weak old man ! But sing to me 
Some comfortable hymn — I ever loved 
Music at sunset in my better days. 

Margaret sings 

Oh Lord ! before thy glorious face 
My human soul I will abase; 

Nor pride myself because I know 
The wonders of the earth and skies ! 
When the stars set, and when they rise; 

And when the little flower doth blow. 

And seasons come and go ! 

Oh, how can man himself present 
Before thee, the Omnipotent, 

The Omnipresent Deity, 
And not abhor the daring pride 
Which his poor soul had magnified; 

And not shrink back, appalled to see 

How far he is from thee! 

Yet, Source of love, and life and light. 
The one existence — Infinite ! 

Thou dost regard thy creature man; 
With mercies dost enrich his lot! 
Hast blessed him though he knew it not 

From the first hour his life began. 

To its remotest span ! 

Oh God ! I will not praise thee most 

For that which makes man's proudest boast — 

Power, grandeur, or unshackled will — 
But to thy goodness will I raise 
My most triumphant song of praise. 

And cast myself in every ill 

Upon thy mercy still ! 

Old Man. 'T is a sweet hymn, a comfortable 
hymn ! 
My daughter, God is good, though man is weak. 
And doubteth of his providence ! 

Mnrg. He is — 

He is a god of mercy more than judgment ! — 
But hark! those are the sounds of eventide; 
Tlie booming of the beetle, and the cry, 
Shrill as a reed-pipe, of the little bat; 
And the low city-hum, like swarming bees; 
And the small water-fall, I hear them now : 
These mark the closing eve : now come within, 
I have your supper ready, and will read 
To you awhile in some religious book. 

37 



28 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Old Man. Well, well — I am but like the ancient 
servant 
Of our good Lord, I do put forth my hand 
And others gird and lead me where I would not ! 

[Tliey go in. 



SCENE ir. 

Night-fall — a room in (he collage. In the far part, 
the old Man's bed, with the curtains drawn round it. 
— Margaret sits within a. screen at her work ; a 
small lamp is burning beside her. 

Marg. I '11 sing a hymn, it oft hath cheered his 
spirit 
In its disquietude — Oh Lord (i)rgive him. 
If he say aught injurious of thy mercy — 
He is a weak, old man ! [She sings. 

Bowed 'neath the load of human ill. 
Our spirits droop, and are dismayed ; 
Oh Thou, that saidest ' peace, be still,' 
To the wild sea, and wast obeyed. 
Speak comfortable words of peace. 
And bid the spirit's tumult cease ! 

We ask not length of days, nor ease, 
Nor gold ; but for thy mercy's sake. 
Give us thy joy, surpassing these. 
Which the world gives not, nor can take ; 
And count it not for sin that we 
At times despond, or turn from thee ! 

Enter ugolin, softly. 

Vgo. How is thy father, Margaret ? does he sleep ? 

Marg. Methinks he does ; I have not heard him 
move 
For half an hour. 

Ugo. Thou lookest sad, my love. 

Hast thought my tarriance long ? I would have sped 
To thee ere sunset, hut I stayed to comfort 
A mother in affliction ; a poor neighbour; 
Wife of the fisherman, whose son hath fallen 
Into the lake, and was brought home a corpse! 
A worthy son, the comfort of the house. 

Marg. Alas, poor soul ! it is a great affliction ! 
Ah Ugolin, this is a world of sorrow. 
And, saving for the hope the (Christian bears 
In his dear faith, a dark and joyless world ! 

Ugo. It is not oft thy spirit is o'ercast — 
I see thee ever as a gentle star. 
Shedding kind, cheering influence ! 

Marg. Of late 

My spirit hath grown sadder, and I ponder 
Upon the many ills which flesh is heir to ; 
Sickness and death — the falling off of friends; 
Blightings of hope ; and of the desolation 
Sin brings upon the heart as on the home — 
And hearing now of this poor woman's grief. 
And of her brave boy's death, my soul is saddened; 
Besides, my father's mood doth frighten me; 
Heaveh grant his soul's impatience be not sin! 



He almost curses life, so does he long 
To pass away in death, which he conceives 
The portal of immortal youth and joy. 
Never did aged man abhor his years 
Like my poor father! 'T is, I must believe, . 
Only the weakness of a feeble spirit. 
Bowed down beneath his threescore years and ten ! 
Ugo. Margaret, thou hast performed a daughter's 
part ; 
I did allow thy father's claim to thee, — 
Now list to mine. Do thou make him my father. 
And let him dwell with us; we'll comfort him — 
Our bliss will reconcile him to his life! 

Marg. Alas, thou know'st he will not leave this 
roof! 
Sorrow and love have bound him to these walls 
He'd die if we remove him; and thy duties, 
As the good pastor of a worthy flock, 
Bind thee unto thy mountains I Ugolin, 
Could I believe this weary waiting for me — 
This seven years' tarriance on a daughter's duty, 
Fretted thee with impatience, I would yield 
Thee back thy faith, and give thee liberty 
To choose elsewhere ; but I have known thee well. 
Have known thy constancy, thy acquiescence 
With the great will of God, howe'er unpleasing 
To our poor souls; so let us s'lU perform 
Our separate duties! When my father needs 
My care no longer, 't will be a great joy 
To have performed my duty unto him; 
And all the good, life has in store lor us, 
Will come with tenfold blessing! 

Ugo. Dearest love, 

I thank thee for the justice thou hast done me — 
But let me have' my will, and to thy father 
Speak once more on this point! If he refuse, 
As he before has done, I '11 say no more ! 

Old Man. Margaret! my daughter Margaret! 
Marg. [drawing aside the curtains.] Yes, dear fa- 
ther. 
What dost thou need ? 

Old Man. I thought I heard him speak, 

Is he still here ? 

Marg. He is, shall he come to Ihee ? 

Old Man. No, no, — I tell thee no! dear daughter 
no! 
I saw him in my dream, and when I woke 
I heard him speak with thee: let him go hence! 
Marg. Dear father, thou art dreaming still, be 
sure ! 
Thou art not speaking of good Ugolin — 
It was his voice thou heard'st! 

Old Man. Good Ugolin ! 

Ay, ay, perchance it might be Ugolin ! 
I was in dreams — I thought it was the man 
Who did converse with me beside the door; 
It was a dream — a strange, unpleasing dream. 
But go, my child, — it only was a dream. 
For rarely dost thou see poor Ugolin ; 
Yet ere thou go, smoothen my pillow for me ! 

[Margaret adjusts the pillov), and draws 
the curtains. 

38 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



2d 



Ugo. Thy father is not well, dear Margaret, 
His sleep is sore disturbed. 

Marg. 'T was but a dream ; 

There came a stranger and conversed with him 
An hour ere sunset, and he sees so rarely 
The face of man, that it becomes a terror 
To him in sleep ; besides, his mind was burthened 
Before he went to rest. [A bell lolls the hour. 

Ugo. The time wears on ; — 

1 must not tarry longer, or the hour 
Will be past midnight ere I reach my home. 
I will be here to-morrow ere the sun set. 
Sweet rest to thee, my Margaret, and good dreams. 
And to the poor old man ! [He embraces her. 

Marg. Farewell, good Ugolin ! [He goes out. 

[Margaret fastens the door ; then, after 
listening a few minutes by her father's 
bed, she retires to her own chamber. 



SCENE III. 

Noon of the next day — the saloon of a house in the 
city, opening to a green on which young men are 
engaged in athletic sports — the old Man sits in a 
large chair looking on ; the Stranger stands beside 
him. 

Strang. Nay, nay, you know it was with your 
consent 
I brought you here. The litter was so easy, 
The day so warm, the gale so soft and low, 
You did yourself confess the journey pleasant ; 
Confessed that a new life refreshed your limbs ; 
Yet now you murmur, and uneasy thoughts 
Disquiet you ! 

Old Man. When the poor flesh is weak, 
So is the spirit. 

Strang. True, my ancient friend ! 

But let us now regard the youths before us ; 
Behold their manly forms, their graceful limbs. 
Supple, yet full of force Herculean. 
Look at their short, curled hair ; their features' play ; 
Their well-set, noble heads ; their shoulders broad ; 
Their well-compacted frames, that so unite 
Beauty and strength together ! Such is youth. 

Old Man. I once was such as they. 

Strang. Look at that boy. 

Throwing the classic discus ! such as he 
The old Greek sculptors loved ; look at his skill. 
How far, how true he hurls ! 

Old Man. When I was young 

I threw it better far I Oh for the years 
That now are distanced by decrepitude ! 

Strang. Look at the slingers yonder ; how they 
mark 
At yon small target ! 

Old Man. [attempting to rise.] Give me here a 
sling ; 
I will excel them all ! 

Strang, [supporting him.] You shall, my friend ! 
ITo one of the youths.] Give here a sling, good De- 
cius ; here you see 



A master of the art ; make way for him ! 

[The Old Man takes the sling, but attempt- 
ing to throw, his arm drops powerless. 
The youths turn away and laugh. 
Old Man. Curse on this arm ! am I a laughing- 
stock ? 
Let me go hence, I am an aged fool I 
Yet that I might but only shame those scoffers 
I 'd yield my hope in heaven! 

Strang, [reconducting him to his seat.] My friend, 
you shall ! 
Vain-glorious fools ! to laugh the old to scorn. 
I told you I was skilled in medicines ; 
The secret virtues of all plants and stones. 
And earths medicinal, are luiown to me ; 
And hence I have concocted a strong draught 
Of wondrous power — it is the Elixir Vitte, 
For which the wise of every age have sought. 

[He presents a small f ask. 
Drink this, ray friend, and vigorous life shall run 
Throughout your frame ; you shall be young anon ; 
You shall be even as these ; and more than these ! 
Old Man. Give me the flask ! I '11 shame the 
insolent : 
I will outsling these mockers! 

[He takes it eagerly, then pauses as if 
deliberating ; smells at it, arid looks at 
it between his eye and the light. 
Strang. Drink, my friend. 

Old Man. Said'st thou it would restore my van- 
ished youth ? 
Strang. Yes, yes! will give thee youth, and 
strength and beauty — 
Will give thee youth which is imperishable ! 

Old Man. And I shall live, enjoying life on earth? 
Strang. Yes, wilt enjoy upon this glorious eaith 
All that the young desire! 

Old Man. [giving it back.] I '11 drink it not ! 
I '11 none of it — it is an evil thing. 

Strang. What, to be such as these, an evil thing ! 
Did they not laugh at thee, and mock thine age ? 
Old Man. Ay, what is youth but folly? Now I 
see 
The sinfulness of my unholy wishes : 
I thank thee, God, that thou hast kept my soul 
From this great snare ! Oh, take me, take me hence, 
A feeble man, I am not of your sort ! 

Strang, [aside.] A curse upon thee, and thy feeble- 
ness. [He speaks to four of the young men. 
My friend, the litter will be here anon; 
These will conduct thee tiafely to thy daughter: 
Give me thy hand, old friend, I fain would serve thee. 
Old Man. Let me go home : I am a weak old man. 
[The four youths accompany him out. 
Strang. ' A weak old man ! a weak old whining 
fool! 
If pain and hunger could have made him mine. 
He should not thus have left me : but I know 
The soul is only strengthened by oppression. 
I still will speak him fair— 1 will flatter him, 
And stir up that impatient soul of his, 
Till his own act shall make him mine for ever. 
Now let him rest awhile, and bask i' the sun, 

39 



30 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Like other feeble things ; for yet seven days 
I '11 leave him to himself, — and then, old man, 
We '11 have a strife for it. [He goes off. 



SCENE IV. 

Evening. The Old Man sitting in his chair within 
his own door — he appears very ill — his daughter 
supports him. 

Old Man. Oh what an icy pang shoots through 
my frame ! 
God help the feeble who do suffer thus ! 

Marg. Some woe hath fallen on thee in the city ; 
Tell me, and who that stranger was, dear lather. 

Old Man. Oh, ask me not of aught ; I am afflicted — 
Body and mind, I am afflicted sore ! 

Marg. Call upon God, my father, he will help 
thee. [ Vgolin comes vp. 

Ugo. My good old friend, how does it fare with 
you? 

Old Man. My son, I am afflicted — mind and body 
Are suffering now together! 

Ugo. [to Marg.] What means he ? 

Marg. I do not know : the guest of yesterday 
Seduced him to the city ; and perchance 
The crowd, the noise, the newness of the scene 
Have overcome his strength ; or else perchance 
He saw some scene of riot or distress 
Which thus hath wrought upon his feebleness. 

Ugo. Father, shall we support thee to thy bed, 
And read to thee, and comfort thee with prayer? 

Old Man Ay, let me to my bed, that I may die ! 
[They support him in. 



CENE V. 

Midnight. The Old Man lying on his bed — Ugolin 
and Margaret sit beside him — Margaret reads. 

" For this corruptible must put on incorruption, 
and this mortal must put on immortality ; 

So when this corruptible shall have put on incor- 
ruption, and this mortal shall have put on immor- 
tality, 

Then shall be brought to pass the saying which is 
written, Death is swallowed up in victory. 

Oh Death, where is thy sting ? O Grave, where is 
thy victory ? 

The sting of death is sin, and the strength of sin 
is the law. 

But thanks be to God, who giveth us the victory 
through our Lord Jesus Christ." 

[She closes the book. 

Old Man. The sting of death is sin ! and over 
death ; 
'T is the Lord Jesus Christ gives us victory I 
Thank thee, my daughter ; there is holy comfort 
In those few words — 

But think'st thou UgoHn 
Will visit us to-night ? I fain would have 
His prayers before I die. 



Marg. He is beside thee; 

Father, he is beside thee, even now. 

Ugo. My father, may the God of peace be with 
thee ! 

Old Man. [looking earnestly at him.] Yes, thou art 
here, good Ugolin — good Ugolin ! 
And thou art good : dear child, give me thy hand. 
My children, I for many years have hung 
Like a dark cloud above your true affection ; 
But I shall pass away, and Heaven will crown 
Your life with a long sunshine. 

Marg. Dear, dear father, 

Take not a thought for us ; God has been good ! 
Thy life has been our blessing. 

Old Man. Yes, my child, 

How truly dost thou say that God is good. 
I know that he is good ; but ray weak failh 
Has failed my latter d^ys. I have repined 
That still my life had a prolonged date. 
1 saw not mercy in my length of years. 
And I have sinned perchance a deadly sin! 

Ugo. Remember, God is full of tender mercy, 
And knows our weakness, nor will try our strength 
Beyond what it can bear. 

Old Man. Oh for a siga 

That I might be accepted ; that the sin 
Of my repinings had been blotted out ! 
I fear to die, w ho have so prayed for death ! 

Ugo. Bethink thee, how our blessed Lord was 
tried. 
And of the agony wherein he prayed 
That that most bitter cup might pass from him! 
He bore those pangs for thee, and by his stripes 
Thou wilt be healed ! Oh put thy trust in him ! 

Old Man. I am a sinner! save me, oh my God ! 

Ugo. Amen ! 

[The old man turns his face to the wall. 
— Margaret arid Ugolin kneel down and 
pray silently. 



SCENE VI. 

Several days afterwards — a church-yard — a body has 
been cojnmitled to the grave ; the mourners stand 
round — the stranger comes up as a casual observer 
— the minister repeals these words. 

Min. "Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty 
God of his great mercy to take unto himself the soul 
of our dear brother here departed, we therefore com- 
mit his body to the ground ; earth to earth ; ashes 
to ashes; dust to dust: in the sure and certain hope 
of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord 
Jesus Christ." 

Strang, [asidel] Thus is it, whether it be saint or 
sinner. 
All are alike committed to the grave, 
In sure and certain hope of resurrection 
To life eternal ! Well, the fools at least 
Are charitable in this farewell rite. 

[He looks among the mourners 
Sure that 's the old man's daughter ! and that man 

40 



I 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



31 



Is pastor Ugolin ! There then is buried 

My iiope of that repining, weary soul ! 

Death was before-hand with me. I ne'er dreamed 

Of his sands running out, just yet at least ; 

Life is a slippery thing ! 1 'II deal no more 

With any mortal who is turned three-score ! 

[He hantens of. 
\The fnnerol train moves away, preceded 
by choristers chanting. 

"I heard a voice from heaven, saying unto me, 
write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead who die 
in the Lord ; even so saith the spirit, for they shall 
rest from their labours." 



This second defeat of Achzib was like a blow given 
by an unseen hand; it was an event allogelher out 
of his calculation. He had heard how the spirit of 
the old man, in its moments of irritation, poured forth 
reproaches and murmurs against God, which would 
have been mortal sin had the heart responded to 
them. But his spirit resembled water in its dead 
calm, corrupt and unsightly, which nevertheless 
when agitated by the tempest overleaps its barriers, 
throws off its impurities, and rushes on in a strong, 
bright torrent. His discontent and his impatience 
were almost meaningless on his own lips ; but ad- 
dressed to him as the sentiments of another, to which 
he was required to assent, he started from their sin- 
fulness, beholding, as it were, his own reflected 
image. This was an event beyond the range of 
Achzib's idea of possibilities. He was sceptical to 
all that virtue in human nature, which great occa- 
sions bring into action, though it may have lain dor- 
mant for half a life, and which may be regarded as 
a store in reserve for extraordinary emergency. 

The old man seemed, as it v.ere, to have slipped 
from his grasp; and, half angry with himself for 
being overcome by so apparently weak an opponent, 
he turned from the burial-place and walked on, he 
hardly knew whither, (or many hours. At length he 
was recalled to his own identity by coming upon a 
village church-yard, where a funeral was taking 
place. The dead seemed to have been of the lower 
class of society, if you might judge by the appearance 
of the coffin, its humble appurtenances, and its few 
attendants; but there was a something about its 
chief and only mourner, which told that misfortune 
had brought her thus low. Yet was her whole air ' 
melancholy and wretched in the extreme ; and so j 
harrowed by grief, so woe-stricken, so wholly self- 1 
abandoned, that no one could see her for a moment I 
without knowing that it was her son who had been ' 
committed to the dust, the only child of his mother, , 
and she a widow. 

Achzib remarked this to an observant stranger who 
stood by. I 

" You are right," he replied, " they bury the only 
child of a widow; a son, who having died before his 
time, will cause the mother's grey hairs to descend 
with sorrow to the grave !" | 

4* F 



" How," inquired Achzib, " has her loss been so 
very great?" 

" Know you not," rejoined the other, " that a mo- 
ther mourns most, suffers most, for the child least 
worthy of her love ? Man knows not to what an 
extent that mother's heart has suffered : it has been 
wounded unto death, and yet it lives on, enduring a 
life more painful than death, a life quivering with 
the sting of outraged love!" 

" Was he not young," inquired Achzib; " how then 
has he committed so great sin ?" 

"You cannot have attentively regarded these 
things," replied the stranger, "or you would know 
that, for a young man, the most perilous of all con- 
ditions is to be the son of a widow; for losnig the 
authority, the counsel, the example of a father, he 
falls into numberless temptations, against which a 
mother can he but an insufficient defence. Besides, 
young men, too often having experienced the easy, 
irresolute, uncertain government of a mother in their 
boyish years, cease to regard her with respect as 
they approach manhood." 

"But," said Achzib, recalling to mind the firm 
principle and devoted affection of the Poor Scholar, 
"I have known such arriving at manhood, armed at 
all points against temptation, and cherishing in their 
souls the most ardent love, the most holy reverence 
for a mother." 

" God forbid," replied the stranger, " that I should 
say all mothers are inadequate to the government of 
a son, or all sons incapable of estimating, and grate- 
fully rewarding the unwearied solicitude, the never- 
sleeping affection of a mother ; for I myself know a 
widow who has trained three noble sons from their 
fatherless boyhood, maintaining her own authority, 
and nurturing in their souls every virtuous and man- 
ly sentiment ; and who now, adorning manhood, are 
as a crown of glory to her brow. And it may also 
be received as a truth, that love and reverence for a 
widowed mother will be as much a preservation from 
evil as the authority of a father — but these are the 
exceptions to the general rule, which is as I have 
said, that the sons of widows are the most peculiarly 
liable to temptation, and the least defended against it." 
" I believe you to be right," replied Achzib, not a 
little pleased with the hint, which had inadvertently 
been given him. " I believe you are right I and of 
all temptations to which a young man so circum- 
stanced is exposed, those of pleasure would be the 
most besetting," continued he, remembering the first 
sin of poor Luberg. 

" Kxactly so," said the stranger : " the timid, ener- 
vating system of female government, gives the heart 
a bias towards pleasure, without strengthening it for 
resistance, or even enabling it to discriminate be- 
tween good and evil. This is the snare into which 
such generally fall ; and there is hardly a sin more 
.sorrowfully degrading, or one which holds its victim 
more irreclaimably : he is as one self-conducted to 
sacrifice; a captive, who rivets on his own fetters, 
while he groans for freedom: fi>r the indulgence of 
those vices miscalled pleasure, while they deaden the 
will, leave quiveringly alive the sense of degradation. 

41 



32 



HO WITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



How has the poor youth, who is now gone down to 
the dust, looked with streaming eyes upon pure and 
noble beings, whom though he still worshipped, he 
had not the power to imitate, and from whose society 
he was cast as a fallen angel from heaven ! How, 
to obliviate the maddening sense of his own degraded 
condition, has he plunged into excesses which he ab- 
horred ! Alas, the spirit, writhing under the com- 
punctuous sense of evil, and the hopelessness of good, 
is a sight upon which the angels of God might drop 
tears of pity !" 

Achzib was satisfied with what he had heard ; 
therefore, bidding his companion good day, he re- 
turned to the city. He had, however, a superstitious 
repugnance to making another trial in the scone of 
his late defeat; he therefore removed to a city where 
all was new to him, and very soon commenced his 
fifth essay, according to the hints thrown out by the 
stranger of the church-yard. 



RAYMOND. 



PERSONS. 

RAYMOND. 

ACHZIB, A STRANGER, AFTERWARDS BARTOLIN A 

MAN OF PLEASURE. 
MADAME BERTHIER, THE MOTHER OF RAYMOND. 
THE PASTOR, HIS GUARDIAN. 
ADELINE, THE PASTOR'S DAUGHTER, BETROTHED 

TO RAYMOND. 
CLARA, A YOUNG LADY OF THE CITY. 
MADAME VAUMAR, HER MOTHER. 
COUNT SIEMAR, THE LOVER OF CLARA. 
SEVERAL SUBORDINATE CHARACTERS. 

Time occupied, upwards of three years. 



ACT I. — SCENE I. 

A summer morning — Raymond silting under a large 
tree in the fields — a small village, half hid among 
wood, is seen in the distance. 

Raymond. How full of joy is life ! All things are 
made 
For one great scheme of bliss — all things are good, 
As at the first when God pronounced tlieni so : 
The broad sun pouring down upon the earth 
His bright effulgence ; every lighted dew-drop 
Which glitters with the diamond's many rays; 
These flowers which gem the coronal of earth ; 
Those larks, the soaring minstrels of the sky ; 
Clear waters leaping like a glad existence ; 
Forests and distant hills, and low green valleys, 
And feeding flocks, and little hamlet-homes. 
All, all are good — all, all are beautiful I 
Existence is a joy ! I walk, I leap 
In that exuberant consciousne.ss of life 
Which nerves my limbs and makes all action pleasure. 
Tiie vigour of strong lite is to my fi"ame 
As pinions to the eagle : and my soul 
Is as a winged angel, soaring up 



In its full joy unto the hea,ven of heavens ; 
Thank God for life, and for the spirit which gives 
The fulness of enjoyment unto life ! 

All that the soul desires of good and fair 

V/dl I possess ; knowledge that elevates 

And that refines ; and high philosophy, 

Which wakes the god-like principle in man ; 

And in the founts of sacred poesy 

I will baptise my spirit, and drink deep 

Of its pure, living waters ; and sweet music 

Shall minister to me, like heavenly spirits 

Calling me upwards to sublimer worlds ! 

All that is beautiful in art and nature — 

Fair forms in sculptured marble, and the works 

Of the immortal masters, will I study ; 

.'\nd so imbue my spirit with a sense 

Of grace and majesty, till it shall grow 

Like that which it perceives ! To me far lands, 

Immortal fur their ancient histories, 

Shall be fiimiliar places : I will seek 

The Spirit of greatness where the great have dwelt, 

And left behind eternal memories ! 

Am I not young, and filled with high resolves ? 
And like the sea my will shall be supreme ; 
Man shall not set it barriers, nor shall say 
"Thus far, but yet no farther!" I will on I 
Glory and pleasure at the goal I see, 
And I will win them both : pleasure, which crowns 
Glory with its most radiant diadem — 
Pleasure, that springs from the proud consciousness 
Of high achievement, purchased at a price 
None but the great would dare to pay for it! 

Ere long, dear mother, thou shalt see thy son 

Among the honourable of the earth. 

I know not how renown shall be achieved ; 

But that it shall is my most solemn purpose, 

And this is my first earnest of success — 

That without power, heaven gives not the desire! 

Yes, yes my mother, I will crown thy age 

Wiih such transcendent glory of my deeds, 

That thou shalt praise God for one chiefest blessing — 

Thy son, thy dutilUl, illustrious spn ! 

I will not bow unto the common things 
Men make their idols — I will stand apart 
From common men — my sensual appetite 
Shall be subservient to my loftier soul — 
I will be great and wise, and rise supreme 
Above my kind, by dominance of mind ! 

But who comes here 1 He hath the look of one 
Who hath seen foreign travel, or hath dwelt 
Much among men, such ever have that air 
Of easy gaiety. — The walk through life 
Without impediment ; my country breeding. 
Makes me embarrassed in a stranger's presence — 
But I will up and meet him, and perchance 
Improve this meeting to a belter knowledge. 

{He rises, and mccis a. stranger, v>ho is 
adcaiicing over the fields towards him. 
42 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



33 



Ray/n Good morrow, sir ! 

You honour glorious Nature, coming out 
Into the fields upon a morn like this ! 

Strang. Your greeting I return with cordial thanks. 
And joii too have done well to leave your books 
To steal an hour for morning recreation. 

Raym. One hour of a fair morning such as this 
Will not sullice me: I shall give the day 
To one long pleasure. 'Tis a festival 
My mother honours with great ceremony. 
Even the birth-day of myself, your servant. 

Strang. I do esteem myself most fortunate 
To meet you on a morning so propitious! 
For your frank greeting, and }'our kind respect 
Have kindled in my soul a friend's regard 
Tn your life's interest, and I gladly wish 
To your long years, health, wealth, and happiness! 

Raym. To you, a stranger, I owe many thanks ; 
And, as my quest this morning was for pleasure. 
And time is of no count, let me walk with you ; 
I can conduct you to our fairest scenes. 
And to some nooks of such sequestered beauty, 
As dryads might have haunted in old times — 
These are my native scenes, I know them all — 
Go you unto the village ? 

Strang. I, like yon, 

Seek only pleasure on this sunny morning. 
I left the city three days since, to spend 
An interval of business in the country. 
And chance directed me unto yon village, 
Where 1 shall yet abide a day or two. 

Raym. 'Tis a sweet, quiet hamlet, buried deep 
Within its wooded gardens ! I am bound 
Thither this evening, to its excellent pastor. 
The kind and faithful guardian of my youth. 
Since my good father's death, — but now whose trust 
Expires ujwn this day. 

Strang. Ila! one-and-twenty — 

It is an age of happiness — the boy 
Has not assumed the sternness of the man ; 
Heavy experience does not weigh down pleasure. 
You are embarking, even now, )'oung man. 
Upon a glorious sea ; spread wide your sails ; 
Catch every breath of heaven, and run down joy ; 
Make her your own before the tempest comes ! 

Raym. You are not a grave councillor, who bids 
The inexperienced vvatc^h, and watch and wait. 
Ever distrusting — still expecting evil ! 

Strang. Wisdom is wisest which is bought from 
proof 
Try ail things, prove them, make your virtue sure 
Upon tlie rock of wise experience ! 
Up, and partake of pleasure w hile you may ; 
A time will come, of feebleness and care. 
When she will fly from you, howe'er you woo her ! 

Rai/m. My youth is vowed to study; therein lies 
My pleasure: — knowledge, and the high reward 
Of an ennobled mind, these are alone 
The aim for which 1 strive ! 

Strang. A noble strift! 

But knowledge of manhood will serve you more 
Than closet-study of book-learning can. 
■ Raym. As yet, I would not dare to trust myself 



Into the world. I know that youth is weak. 

And may be lured so easily aside ! 

I have a mother, sir, a widowed mother ; 

I am her only child — I would not leave her; 

My life is vowed to make her bless her son. 

Strang. Give me.thy hand, young man, I honour 
thee! 
A virtue such as thine may face temptation; 
Like gold, it will come purer from the fire! 

Ragm. Kind sir, you do commend me all too much. 
But we are now even at my mother's gate — 
You must walk in, she will rejoice to welcome 
One tliat has kindly conversed with her son. 

Strang. A fair and stately mansion, with old woods 
Girded around — an honourable assurance 
That thy good father was a careful man, 
And left to thee a pafrimony clear ! 

Raym. 'Tis a fair place ; and let me make you, sir. 
Further acquainted with it, and my mother. 
She has the kindest smiles for friendly greeting! 

Strang. Ko, my young friend, I must decline that 
pleasure — 
A household festival is never mended 
By presence of a stranger — for all mothers 
Esteem such days solemn and sacred seasons — 
So now farewell ! 

Raym. Kind sir, farewell to you ! 

I '11 pledge our friendship in a generous cup. 

[He parts from him. 

Strang. He will not cheat me like the widow's son 
In the frieze-gown sitting among his books ! 
This is a scholar of another sort ! 
And spile his talk of virtue and high doings. 
He 's mine, poor self-deluding boy, he 's mine ! 
But had I faced his mother, she had spied 
The cloven foot beneath my saintliest guise — 
She is a woman who has tried the world. 
And found it a deceit ; therefore she keeps 
Her gentle Raymond like a Corydon, 
Watching his silly sheep among the fields. 
Fond mother, make a festival ! thy son 
Hath eaten the forbidden fruit this day ! 
And drink unto our further friendship, Raymond, 
For all that it can give, thou shalt enjoy — 
Beauty and gold ; whate'cr the world calls pleasure ; 
But thou must pay the stated price thereof! 
Now fare thee well ! I '11 meet thee this same eve 
Before the pastor and thy wisest mother 
Eo arm thee with suspicious wariness ! 

[He goes off. 



SCENE 11. 

Evening — the west tinged with the fading clouds of a 
gorgeous si:nfct, the full-moon shining high in the 
heavens — Raymond and Adeline standing together 
on a garden terrace, before the open vindow of the 
house. 
Raym. How like a fair face shining out of heaven. 

Yon glorious moon appears! sweet Adeline, 

All things I look upon are beautiful — 

Even as I felt this morning, feel I now ; 

43 



84 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The mere perception of a vital power, 
Is strong enjoyment ; every breath I draw, 
Is like the quaffing an inspiring draught 
Of some old vintage, which, to every pulse 
Doth send a boundmg joy ! old Jove felt thus, 
Draining the nectar from the cup of Hebe ! 

Adel. Raymond, be sure he was some alchemist 
You met this morning, who hath pondered out 
The wonderful elixir, and hath given 
To you a drop thereof! Did you not taste. 
Or smell from a most curious, antique flask. 
Less than my little finger, that he showed you ? 
Depend upon it, Raymond, you 're immortal! 
Now say, have you not drank the Elixir Vitse ? 

Rayin. Nay, Adeline, my soul ran o'er with joy 
Before I met that stranger. 

Adel. 'T was because 

You now can call yourself your own sage master. 
We shall not see you, Raymond, as we used — 
You are full-grown, and not of nonage now ; 
You will not come to study with my fiither 
Those old Greek poets ; I must read myself; 
You will not be my lexicon again ! 

Raijm. Sweet Adeline, I shall come more than ever. 
But you forget, I have your father's leave 
To lay those old Greek poets by, and read 
Anolher book, whereto, my own dear love, 
You must yourself be my sweet lexicon ! 

[He kisses her cheek. 

Adel. Oh fie ! my father should not give you leave 
To put your studies by, for well I know 
You are a-weary of them, and of us ! 

Raym. Hast thou not been mine angel for these 
years — 
Oh ever since I was a little child ? 
But now much more than ever! 

Adel. But this scheme 

Of going to the city, I like not — 
Why would you leave us ? you can study here, 
My father studies in this quiet place ; 
He ever is distracted in the cily. 

Raym. 'T was a mere vision ! I but thought of it. 

Adel. Well, thmk of it no more ! 

Raym. Now, let us in ; 

And ere I say good night, dear Adeline, 
Let us have some sweet music — sing that hymn, 
So full of awful sorrow, that I love. 
Give me sad music when my heart is lightest ! 

[They go in. 
[Adeline is heard singing to her 
instrument. 

' Father, from heaven look down. 
Sorrow doth rover us ; 
Great waves pass over us ; 
The heavy waters of a stormy sea ! 
Our hope is but in thee — 
Save us, oh father, save ! 

Night hath come down on us I 

Our visages are pale; 

Our drooping spirits fail ; 
We do confess our sin! Forgive, forgive! 



Oh say that we shall live ; 

Though we have sinned, yet save ! 

Alas, the day is done ! 

God has abandoned us ! 

Oh sea, roll over us — 
Cover us mountains, ere the Judge appear ! 

He will not, will not hear — 
He will not, will not save ! 



ACT n. — SCENE L 

Twelve months afterwards — a chamber in a magnifi- 
cent house in the cily. 

Bartolin. [alo7ie.] So far and all is well, for my 
good Raymond, 
Though a self-willed, is still a hopeful scholar: 
True, I have had to war with passion-starts. 
And strong out-breakings of his natural love 
Towards that tender, long-enduring mother; 
But now her anger, and her stern upbraidings 
Will do the work I had found diflicult; 
The severing of the latest bonds of duty — 
Nor shall there lack me means to effect disunion ; 
Black rumours, based on truth, shall reach her ear — 
His thriftless charges ; his luxurious life ; 
His friends the dissolutest in the city ; 
His disregard of stated sacraments ; 
The lawless prodigal he is become, — 
All this shall reach her by a thousand ways. 
She will contrast the present with the past. 
And note the work of twelve months on the boy. 
Boastful of virtue ; see the end of all 
That proud ambition, which did plume itself 
Upon a glorious eyrie 'mong mankind ! 
The mother's heart is keenly sensitive. 
And, when it hath been wrung, and w ronged likeher's, 
Doth take a tone so vehement in sorrow. 
That it may pass for acrmionious hate. — 
Thus stands the case at present! 

With the tide 
Of headlong pleasure we go sailing on. 
Filling the echoing air with loud carousal. 
She sits within her solitary home. 
Eating her heart with miserable thoughts ; 
Affections blighted ; hopes that are o'ercast. 
And prayers that have no answer. Wretched mother, 
Thy prodigal will ne'er return to thee! 

But hark ! there is the voice of merriment — 
Raymond is loudest at the festive board ; 
Raymond is swiftest in the race for ruin ; 
Wildest in riot ; greediest of applause ; 
Most daring in the insolent outbreaks 
Of passion against custom ; first in all things ; 
Goodliest in person; most refined in manners; 
Witty and gracious; smiling like an angel, 
Yet growing daily blacker, like a fiend I 
Oh most accomplished sinner, thou art mine! 

But hark again ! their merriment grows louder ; 
Hence will 1, and partake their revelry. 

[He goes out. 
44 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



35 



SCENE 11. 

A lofty saloon, in which Raymond and his guesis sit 
round a table furnished with the choicest wines. 

Raym. [filling his glass.] This is my birth-night, 

friends, make merry all ! 
Guests. Health and long life unto our noble host I 
Raym. My friends, I thank ye, — now devote the 
night 
To one long revel, — drown all care in wine! 

[ They all driuk. 
Why are you silent, friends ? let us have song ! 
1st. Gen. [singing: — 

Down, down with the sorrows 

And troubles of earth ! 
For what is our life made. 

But drinking and mirth I 
Drink and be glad, sirs, 

Laugh and be gay ; 
Keep sober to-morrow, 

But drink to-day! 

Love 's a deceiver. 

He '11 cheat if he can ; 
Sweet innocent woman 

Is wiser than man ! 
Trust her not, trust her not. 

She will deceive ! 
Who wins her may gather 

The sea in a sieve! 

Laying up money 

Is labour and care ; 
All you have toiled for 

Is spent by the heir! 
Knowledge is wearisome. 

Save when the wise 
Study whole volumes 

In beautiful eyes! 

So, down with the sorrows 

And troubles of earth ! 
For what was our life made 

But drinking and mirth! 
Then drink and be glad, sirs, 

Laugh and be gay ; 
Keep sober to-morrow, 

But drink to-day ! 

Raym. A jovial song, and full of sage advice! 
Friends, do as ye are told, drink ye to-day ! 

[He fills his glass ; the guests all do the 
same. 
2d. Gen. Now, by your leave, I '11 give you an 
old song, 
I heard a soldier singing on the rampart 
Just as a bullet struck him. 
All. Let us have it ! 

[He sings. 
She stood before our Lady's shrine, 

And offered gems and gold ; 

A stately woman, pale and sad. 

Before her time grown old. 



And softly, softly murmured she 

A prayer so sad and low. 
And hid her face with both her hands. 

That none her grief might know. 

That woman's prayer, unheard by man. 

Went up to God on high. 
Like an archangel's trumpet- voice, 

That shakes the earth and sky. 

" Give back my wanderer unto me. 

Mine erring child reslore !" 
But the hills of heaven they answered her, 

" He 's lost for evermore !" 

"Give back," she cried, " mine only one. 

Have 1 not sorrowed sore !" 
But the depths of hell made answer low, 

"He'sour's for evermore!" 

Raym. Sir, you have cast a gloom upon our mirth. 
Drink, friends, and let us drown the memory 
Of this strange song in wine. 

3d Gen. [flourishing his glass and singing : — 

Where art thou, Nerisse the bright ! 

With thy jewels wreathed about thee. 
Like the starry queen of night — 

Love himself would die without thee ! 

Sweet Nerisse! thou art so fair; 

Art so dowered with queenly graces, 
That in heaven, if thou wert there. 

Goddesses would veil their fades ! 

Enter SERVANT — to Raymond. 

There is a lady, sir, doth crave admittance. 

Raym. Dost know her ? If she be (he dancing girl 
Who was here yesternight, let her come in. 

Serv. I do not know her. sir. She is close veiled. 
Gen. Let her come in, Nerisse wore a veil ! 

[Enter Modaine Berthier, throwing hack 
her veil. 
Mad. B. Peace with your idle jests ! — I am not one 
Come to partake your sinful revelries ! 

Raym. [endeavouring to pvt her hacJc] Shame on 

you, Madame Berthier, — 'tis unseemly! 
Mad. B. I will not be thrust back ! What are these 
men 
That they should part the mother and her son! 
Guests, [lo each other.] It is his mother, — it ia 

Madame Berthier ! 
Raym. Come with me, mother, — let me speak with 
thee! 

[They go out. 



SCENE III. 

A small apartment — Enter Madame Berthier and 
Raymond. 
Raym. It was not warrantable e'en in a mother 
Thus to intrude on her son's privacy ! 
Mad. B. And this from thee, thou hope of my lone 
heart! 

43 



36 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ungracious son, is this thy love and duty ! 

They do not call me now a happy mother — 

No, no, they need not — I have now no son ! 

Would I had followed thee unto the grave 

In the kind innocence of thy young boyhood, — 

Then I had wept for thee — then had I said 

When sorrow came, "Oh if my boy had lived, 

He would have been my comfort I" [Weeps. 

Raym. Nay, be calm, 

And hear me speak to thee I Have I not borne 
Bitter invective with unwearying patience ; 
Hast thou not heaped reproach upon reproach, 
Upbraiding on upbraiding, till I hid 
Myself behind stern silence for repose ? 

Mad. B. Raymond, thou wast my son — ray only 
child. 
My life's life, and the glory of ray age — 
The dearest creature on the earlh to me — 
Was I to see thee perish and be still ? 
Was I to see thy soul upon the brink 
Of black perdition, and not cry " beware !" 
Oh cruel, pitiless unto thyself, 
Unjust unto thy mother! 

Raym. Thou 'rt unjust 

To me by these unmerited reproaches ! 
Because I sought to live among mankind. 
And with the gay be gay — and with the young 
Live in light-hearted joy, must I, perforce, 
Be a lost profligate ? 

Mad. B. Alas, my son, 

Thou dost deceive thyself This is not joy. 
This giddy rioting ! and call'st thou life, 
This daily wasting of thy manhood's strength ? 
How art thou self-deceived ! how art thou changed — 
Changed mournfully without, as changed within ! 
Thy cheek has lost its beautiful hue of youth, 
Thine eye its brilliant cheerfulness ! Would God 
That 1 could give my life a sacrifice. 
And so redeem thee, my poor, erring son 

Raym. Alas, my mother, I have done thee wrong; 
Forgive me ! and may Heaven forgive me too ! 

Mad. B. My son, ray dear, dear son, thou wilt re- 
turn — 
Thou wilt make glad once more thy father's place — 
Wilt not let shame and ruin cover us ! 

[She embraces him and weeps. 

Raym. Now mother rest awhile, thou need'st 
repose ; 
These rooms are still, and I will send attendants 
Who will regard thy comfort, ere thou go 
Back to thy home. 

Mad. B. I go not back without thee ! 

I will not leave thee in the cruel power 
Of him that has no mercy — that vile man. 
That heartless man, — the dissolute Bartolin ! 

Raym. Thou may'st reproach me, but my friends 
thou must not ! 

Mad. B. Thy friend ! call him thy foe, thy cruel 
foe! 

Raym. My mother, let our parting be in peace — 
Thy over-anxious heart makes thee intemperate ! 
I go not hence, the city is my home — 
Now fare thee well! 



Mad. B. Thou blind, deluded man, 

Thou cruel son of a heart-broken mother ! 
Oh Raymond, Raymond, I came here in sorrow, 
And thou wilt send me hence more sorrowful ! 
What shall avail me ? I will kneel to thee — 
I do implore thee to be merciful 
To thine abused soul — my son, my son, 
I bathe thy feet with tears, and my white hair 
Bow to the dust! return, my child, return — 
My prodigal, return to God, and me ! 

[She s»iAs insensible to the floor. Ray- 
mond, very much moved, raises her and 
supports her to the couch. 
Enter bartolin. 
Bar. The guests much marvel at your long delay: 
Their mirth is silenced until your return. 

Raym. Let it be silenced ! let them all begone ! 
To-night I shall return not to the table ! 

[Exit Bartolin. 
Mad. B. [faintly rising.] My son, I have beheld 
thee ; and my heart 
Bleeds with a cureless sorrow. I will hence ; 
What do I here in this strange house of mirth ? 
I will go back unto my lonely place I 

Raym. Mother, thou shalt not leave me thus! 
\ awhile 

Remain thou here with me, an honoured guest 
Come, I will lead thee to a fitter chamber. 
Where thou shalt calm thy soul and rest thy frame. 

Mad. B. Bless thee, my son ! Oh be my age's stay. 
How rich, how happy, how exceeding blest 
A dutiful, dear child can make a parent! 

[They go out. 



. SCENE IV. 

Several months afterwards — evening — pleasure gar- 
dens, adorned with fountains, temples, and statues- 
parties in the distance, are seen through the openings 
of trees, dancing on the smooth green turf — ?nusic is 
heard, and handsomely dressed, people are walking 
about. The interior of a Grecian temple, which 
commands a partial view of the gardens — Raymond 
reclines on a couch, Clara sits at his feet, her hair 
bound with a wreath of rose and myrtle. 

Raym. This is a fairy place ! none are seen here 
Save gallant men, and women beautiful; 
One might believe there was no care on earth, 
Looking on man through vistas such as these ! 
Yon green turf and those heavy-branched trees, 
And those light-iboted forms, with twining arms, 
Dancing beside that fountain, call to mind 
The famous gardens of old Babylon. 

Clara. They are delicious gardens ! but most fair 
To me, because I ever meet you in them! 
I do not see the peojile, nor the fountains. 
Nor the dark trees, nor any thing but you ! 

Raym. Sweet Clara, love makes up the beautiful 
whole 
Of thy delightful being ! thou hast never 
Known what it is to carry a sad heart 
Into a place of shining revelry ! 

46 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



37 



Clara. Can you have known it? you, the rich, the 
witty — 
You, that they ever call the fiirtunate ! 

Raym. I have, my fair one ! But come, sing to me; 
I am hke Saul, the spirit of woe is on me. 
And thou must charm it hence with thy sweet songs. 

Clara. Oh that I were a Muse, that I could put 
The very soul of music into words! 

Raym. Thou art a woman — thou art mine own 
love, 
My glorious Clara, brighler than a Muse ! 
Hebe was such as thou ; I marvel not 
The heart of Jove sank in the nectar-cup! 
But sing, my fair one, let me hear thy voice ! 

There 's a cloud on thy brow, love. 

Oh smile it away! 
And do not let sorrow 

Depress thee to day ! 

Smile, dearest and brightest'. 

For why should'st thou wear, 
When others are smiling. 

This aspect of care ? 
Thou hast sworn that my love 

Is a balm for distress. 
If it blessed thee before, 

'Twill now doubly bless! 

They tell me thou art not 

So true as I deem. 
And that I must wake 

From my beautiful dream : 

But thy goodness they know not 

Who speak thus of thee ; 
Thou hast sworn, and I know 

Thou art faithful to me ! 

Raym. [Marling up.] 'T is he ! 't is he ! I know 

him now indeed ! 
Clara. Who, Raymond ? speak ! and why art 

thou so pale ? 
Raym. Dost see him, Clara ! him in the black 
cloak, 
That solemn-looking man ? 

Clara. 'Tis but a pastor; 

I saw him, when we entered, gaze on us — 
But there is nothing strange in such a thing. 
Though they look grave, they are most pleasant men. 
They laugh and sing; they are but stern outside — 
We know a many very worthy pastors. 
Raym. This is not such a one — thou know'st 
him not ! 
Hither he has not come for revelry — 
1 know him well ; for he was my youth's guardian ! 
Clara. You need not fear him, he is not so now ! 
Come Raymond, let us leave him to himself, 
He 's moralizing on these gaities ; 
1 '11 warrant you, he '11 make a sermon of them ! 

Raym. Be silent girl! I did not ask thy jests — 
slest on that couch till I return to thee. 

[He goes out. 



SCENE V. 

An alcove in a sequestered part of the garden. 
Enter Raymond, and the pastor. 

Raym. Well, sir? 

Past. And having seen, I do depart, 

Bearing back with me a most sad conviction, 
That thou art in 'the way that leads to death ! 

Raym. The privilege of an old friend allows 
You to speak thus — nothing beside would give it ! 

Past. I should regard it as the sacred duty 
Of my high office, to warn any man 
Of his soul's danger ; and think nol that thou, 
Who hadst a son's place in my aged heart, 
Shalt pass unwarned ! No, Raymond, I conjure thee 
F'lee from destruction, ere it be too late ! 
I charge thee not with sin, — be thine own conscience 
Thy judge, as thine accuser! Ah, my friend, 
Is this the splendid promise of thy youth ? 
Thy blameless life — thy high heroic virtue; 
Thy lofty hopes — thy dreams of lair ambition ; 
The principles thy noble mother gave thee — 
And thy affection for that injured mother ? 

Raym. Who is there, sir, that can look back and 
say. 
In nought have I offended? 

Past. None, my son ! 

All, all have sinned — all, all have fallen short 
Of the full measure of their righteousness ! 
But this cannot avail thee — couldst thou plead 
Thus in the awful day, before thy judge ? 
Thou must abjure all sin — must cleanse thy heart 
And make thy life pure, ere thou canst look up 
With any hope that there is pardon for thee! 
More joy is there in heaven when one poor sinner 
Returns to God, than over many just. 
Who do not need forgiveness ! Oh, come back. 
Come back, poor prodigal, to thy father's arms! 
Come back, my friend — virtue has truer joys 
Than guilty pleasure ever can afford thee ! 

Raym-. My more than father! there is one fair 
creature, 
Whose virtue, whose dear love can win me back — 
Thy daughter, can she love me and forgive? 

Past. Alas, alas ! my poor heart-broken daughter ! 
It is too late for this. If thou hadst loved 
That maiden, thou hadst ne'er run madly on 
In such a wild career of vice and folly! 

Raym. Thou canst not fathom man's mysterious 
heart — 
Thou canst not comprehend how Adeline 
Has been a shrined saint within my soul. 
Still unpolluted by ail baser worship — 
When I forget God, I remember her! 
Oh, might I hope, I would retrace my steps 
Through burning agonies ! 

Past. Poor erring man, 

It is too late for hope ! canst thou recall 
The bitter woe of thy unkind desertion ? 
Oh, Raymond, Raymond, thou know'st not the pangs 

47 



38 



IIOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of that sad maiden's heart : how she grew pale 
With hope that was a mockery ; how she pined 
For the companion of" her lovely youth, 
Till certainly of thine abandonment 
Made love despair! 

Raytn. Oh, let me win her back 

To love and happiness ! 

Past. She is betrothed 

Unto another bridegroom — one more true, 
More sternly true than thou wert ! - 

Raym. Is she false ? 

Hath she too broken her vows ? 

Past. She was not false ! ■ 

Oh, most unkind, come thou and see her spousals — 
Come thou and see the drooping bride of death! 
Methinks it would recall thee from thy sin 
To see the cruel havoc it has made ! 

Raym. My father, on my knees beside her bed 
I will abjure my sins I Give, give her to me — 
Even from death will I redeem my bride! 

Past. I heard a gaudy sinner at thy side 
Singing her harlot songs ! 

Raym. Nay, she is pure! 

But I have sinned — I do confess my sin — 
Fore heaven and thee. Tiie vows I made to her 
I do abjure, and my old faith take back! 

Past. Thoughtless young man ! If thou have any 
vows. 
Hold them religiously ; and use thy power 
To keep that maiden free of sin and shame! 
The faith thou profTerest my dying daughter 
Cometh too late — alas I alas ! too late ! 

Raym. Life has no further hope, no direr pang — 
My sin is past redemption ! 

Past. Raymond, no! 

Poor Adeline forgives thee, so will God ; 
But thou must turn from sin ! Bethink thee, Raymond, 
Of thy heart-broken mother ; turn thee back 
Repentant to her arms — a mighty debt 
It is thou owest her, of love unpaid ! 

Raym. Oh for a dark oblivion I Oh for death ! 
Oh for the blackest, lowest depths of hell, 
So I might win forgetfulness ! 

Past. Peace, peace ! 

My heart bleeds for thee I Thou hast had my prayers, 
My earnest prayers to heaven, and yet shall have 
them! 

Raym. Thus dost thou speak, after the mighty woe 
That I have heaped upon thee ! Is this love, 
Or is it some deep curse, disguised as love ? 

Past. My Raymond, it is thus a Christian man 
Forgives his erring brother. And thou, thou 
Wast as a first-born child unto my soul ! 

Raym. Let me begone ! I am so bowed with shame — 
So utterly unworthy — let me go! 

Past. Yes, let us go ; this gaudy place of sin 
Is no fit shrine for humble penitence ; 
Come then with me ! 

Raym. Nay, nay, I go alone ! 

I have heard that which hath unmanned my soul ; 
Give me but time — I '11 meet thee on the morrow ! 
[He turns hastily away, and passes among 
the trees. 



Past. Strengthen him, Oh Lord! The present 
time is precious : 
Repentance comes too late that comes to-morrow ! 

[He follows him. 

SCENE VL 

The house of Madame Vaumar — a nolle apartment— 
Madame Vaumar and her daughter silting together. 

Mad. V. But what are his intentions towards you. 
Ay ? honourable marriage ? 

Clara. Why question it ? 

Have we not had, dear mother, proof on proof 
Of his unwavering kindness unto us ? 

Mad. V. Presents and money he has ne'er with- 
held — 
Of these, free-handed men are ever lavish ; 
With these they buy exemption from all bonds ; 
'Tis therefore I suspect his pure intentions. 

Clara. Suspect Jmn .' Oh, I should as soon suspect 
The sun that shines at noon-day ! 

Mad. V. Nonsense, child ! 

Enter servant. 

Serv. Madam, Methusaleh, the Jew, is here, 
And doth require to see you. 

Mad. V. Send him back ; 

Say that I am engaged, and cannot see him — 
Or tell him, rather, that I am abroad ! 

Serv. I told him this, but it would not suffice him; 
He will not leave the house unless he sees you. 

Mad. V. Go then and tell him, I 'II be down anon. 
[Servant goes out. 
These usurers will sure dictate the terms 
Of their salvation on the judgment day ! 
Money he wants, and money I have none — 
I 'd meet a lion rather than this Jew! 

Clara. He has had patience, mother, wondrous 
patience ! 

Mad. V. Pshaw, silly girl, he '11 make us pay for it ! 

Clara. And yet we go on, ever spending more — 
Far better were it to have paid this Jew, 
Than to have spent a thousand crowns, my mother, 
For one night's masquerade ! 

Mad. V. You simple child, 

That never had the commonest worldly wisdom 
It is but wasting words to talk with you ! 

Clara. Well, mother dear, you have enough for 
both ! 

[Madame Vaumar goes out. 

[After a pause, Clara rises and adjusts her 
hair before a mirror, singing the while. 

Thy love may be rich and great. 

Mine is more to me ! 
Gold it is gives love its weight 

Unto one like thee. 

My love, riding to the fight. 
Wins all eyes to him ; 

Every other gallant knight 

By his side looks dim. 
My love in the minstrel's song 

lias won golden fame — 
48 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



39 



[She, sees, through the mirror, Raymond 
entering. 
Clara, [nodding to him.] Welcome, thou noble 
flower of chivalry — 
Thy fame was well nigh sung ! But Raymond, say. 
Shall you be at the masquerade to-night ? 
Raym. No, not to-night. 

Clara. Nay. but indeed you must ! 

The great Count Siemar, who is just returned, 
And sets the wondering city all a-stir, 
Goes there to night ! 

Raifni. Well, let him go, 

What is 't to me ? 

Ckira. All women say the Count 

Is handsome, wondrous handsome — and all men 
That he is brave — we know that he is brave ; 
His warlike deeds bear testimony for him. 
Raijm. I shall not go ; and do not thou go, Clara! 
Clara. My mother's heart is bent upon my going. 
And upon my appearing as a Houri ; — 
I like it not ; far rather would I be 
A peasant of Ionia, in the dress 
You did admire so much. 

Raym. Poor foolery this ! 

I pray thee, Clara, go not ! 

Clara. I would swear 

That you were masquerading even now ; 
May 't please your reverence to give reasons good 
For this new faith ! 

But, mercy on us, Raymond, 
How pale you are ! there 's sorrow in your eye — 
What has distressed you 1 Have you seen again 
That gloomy man that met us in the gardens ? 

Raym. No, my sweet love ; and if ray countenance 
Betokens sorrow, it but tells a tale 
Of a wild agony my soul passed through 
In a strange dream last night. 

Clara. Heed not a dream ! 

Raym. Alas, alas ! it w-as no common dream — 
It cleaves unto my burning soul, even now, 
Like the irrevocable doom of God ! 
It told me that we, both of us, were damned ! 

Clara. Good heavens ! 't is horrible — most horri- 
ble— 
And you do look so stern — so darkly stern ! 

Raym. Not stern, but sad, and sorrowfully earnest. 
Heaven is my witness, sinner as I am. 
With what sincere conviction 1 conjure thee 
To flee from fiilly, wherein lieth death ! 
Thou tender heart, let not tiie curse come down 
On both of us : — for me there is no hope ; 
Yet, though so black with guilt, I still revere 
The virtuous — I still reverence purity — 
And, for the unstained goodness of thy soul, 
Love thee far better than thy outward charms ; 
And were I but a worthy, guiltless man, 
How would I take thee to my bounding heart, 
And bless my God lor so great happiness ! 
But thy fate shall not be allied to mine — 
I will not drag thee with me to the pit ! 
i Clara. If thou must perish, I will perish with 
thee — 
Sufler with thee — go down to death with thee ! 
5 G 



Raym. Thou art too good, too noble to be lost ! 
Clara. But let me know thy dream, thy awful 

dream. 
Raym. I dreamt that I was dead — and that, like 
Dives, 
I woke in the eternal pit of sin ! 
I thought I had been judged — Oh, what a sum 
Of crime was there against me !— crime which then 
I saw deformed, and hideous in the light 
Of God, and all the heavenly company ! 
I thought my mother did appear in heaven 
And call for judgment on me! — my kind mother, 
Whom I have wronged, and brought to misery ! 

Clara. Oh that thy mother loved me ! Go to her. 
My dearest friend, and reconcile her to thee ! 

Raym. I will, I will, and thou shalt comfort her! 
But to my dream — Methought that I did hear 
Those lips, which gave the thief upon the cross 
Hope and redemption, say to me " Depart — 
Depart, thou cursed, to eternal fire !" 
And, by a power I did not dare control, 
I was cast down, and down, and ever down 
Into the eternal gulph, yawning and black ; 
Whose depth at length I reached, a world of woe ! 
Where sin put off all mask, and did appear 
Monstrous and vile; and where each countenance 
Wore the expression of a hopeless pang — 
Wailing was there, and gnashing of the teeth. 
And every outward sign that tokenelh woe. 
"Abide thou here !" said one, whose word seemed 

fate, 
" Abide thou here with her whom thou hast drawn 
From the high beauty of her innocence !" 

Clara. Ah, gracious God ! 't is like a frightful 
warning. 

Raym. This was my dream. Not indistinct and 
vague 
Like common dreams, but bearing the impress 
Of stern reality. There, too, I saw. 
Like one rejoicing o'er a sacrifice. 
Him that has been mine evil genius ! 

Clara. What, Bartolin ? 

Rni/m. Methought he was a fiend, 

And called his fellows to rejoice o'er me 
As o'er a victim! I abhor that man — 
I know that he is crafty, base, and cold — 
And yet he hath so subtly wove himself 
Into the web of my accursed life. 
That he makes up a fearful part of it ! 

Clara. Would that you had not had this horrid 
dream ! 
And yet, dear Raymond, it was but a dream .' 

Raym. Thus do we ever strive to put back truth: 
'T was but a dream, we say — I tell thee, Clara, 
It was a dream that doth foreshow my doom ! 

Enter MADAME Vaumar, in great agitation. 

Mad. V. Give me your diamonds, Clara, they 
must go 
To satisfy this avaricious Jew : 

Clara. My diamonds ! those that Raymond gave 
unto me ! 

49 



40 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Mad. V. Ay, girl! this Jew would have thy very 
heart's blood ! 
He doth demand with brutal insolence 
The payment of the sum already due — 
Or pledge of jewels equal to the value — 
Or some rich friend as a security ! 

[She throws herself into a chair, and 
wrings her hands. 
We are undone ! poor Clara, we are beggars — 
In the iiard hands of a usurious Jew ! 

Raym. Madam, what sura requires this usurer ? 
Mad. V. Far more than we can raise ! three 
thousand crowns — 
But Clara's diamonds will be pledge sufficient — 
Why do you not obey me, Clara ? (etch them! 
Sir, you must pardon such a use of tiiem, 
But we are poor, and poverty is forced 
To make such sacrifice as wealth conceives not. 
Raym. Nay, nay, my Clara, you shall keep your 
baubles ! 
The debt shall be discharged — where is the man ? 
Mad. V. No, dearest sir, you shall not thus o'er- 
burthen 
Yourself with our distresses ! 

Raym. 'T is my pleasure ! 

Three thousand crowns, you say, is his demand ? 
Mad. V. Three thousand crowns, sir, with a large 
arrear 
Of shameful interest. 
Raym. May be four thousand crowns ? 

Mad. V. 'Twill be that sum, at least. 
Raym. He is below — 

111 see him and discharge the debt anon. 

Clara. Alas, sir, you will surely curse the day 
You knew us, with our great necessities — 
We are so much your debtors ! 

Raym. I am yours! 

But now, adieu! madam, to you good day! 

\lle bows, and goes out. 
Clara. Most generous man ! most noble, godlike 
man ! 
Mother, are you not 'whelmed with gratitude ? 
And yet I would we were not thus indebted. 

Mad. V. 'T is nothing, child, for him — four thou- 
sand crowns — 
'T would go in some wild fi>lly, if not thus: 
And if he love you, he is proud to serve you — 
If not, why let the counterfeit pay dearly 
To hide his baseness ! 

Clara. You may reason thus, 

I cannot! Oh, he is a godlike man ! 

Mad. V. Well, child, I go unto the promenade — 
You must walk too, this clear fresh air will heighten 
The colour on your cheek, too delicate else ; 
And you must wear your brightest looks to-night ! 
Come, come, I wait lor you. 

Clara. I shall not walk — 

My heart is weary — I shall to my chamber. 

[She goes out ; Madam V. follows her. 



SCENE VII. 

The house of Raymond — he and BarloUn sitting cA a 
table, iviih papers before them. 

Raym. And say you there 's no residue ? 

Bar. No — none ! 

Raym. And that this money cannot be obtained ? 

Bar. I say again, it cannot! 

Rai/m. Are there none 

Who will advance this money on my bond ? 

Bar. Your bond is nothing without means to 
back it — 
It cannot be obtained ! 

Raym. It must! it shall! 

Money has hitherto been plentiful — 
Apply, sir, where you have applied before! 

Bar. I have applied ; and this was all my answer. 
[He produces a small sealed packet. 

Raym. Well, sir, and what is this ? 

Bar. Nay, break the seal ! 

Raym. [opening the packet.] What things are these? 

Bar. With tears, she bade me say 

That she had nought else left — her wedding-ring. 
And her dead husband's Bible. 

Raym. Oh, my mother! 

Thou cruel, godless wretch; hast thou been draining 
From that heart-broken mother, her poor all! 
Was it from her thou got'st the easy gold 
With which thou sinn'dst, — and leddest me to sin! 

Bar. Did you not bid me get you gold ; and swore 
You cared not whence, nor how ? 

Raym. Thou heartless sinner ; 

Thou pander to iniquity ! May heaven 
Vi.=it this mother's sorrow on thy head ! 
When came this message to thee ? 

Bar. Full seven days since. 

Raym. Full seven days since ! and yet you told 
me not. 

Bar. You gave me not the chance ! Have you 
not shunned me ? 
Have you not flung at me opprobrious looks 
Whene'er we met, and passed, as if I were 
A loathsome leper ? 

Raym. Cause I haled thee — 

Because I know thee ! and I fain would not 
Breathe of the air thy presence hath polluted. 

Bar. 'T were better that we parted ! 

Raym. It were best. 

Bar. I thought not to have found you, sir, un- 
grateful ! 

Raym. I do not owe thee gratitude, but curses! 

Bar. We have had many happy days together, — 
We have had jovial nights. I would not part 
From an old boon companion, with a grudge. 
When this hot fit is by, you 'II need my service, 
.\iid I 'Jl attend your summons. 

Raym. Hateful reptile ; 

Too long I have endured thee. Get thee hence. 

Bar. [a.tide.] I will return these insults tenfold 
on thee — 
And thou shalt find the reptile has his fangs! 

[He goes out 
50 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



41 



Raym. [after a pause, taking up the ring.] 
Small golden circlet — pledge of holy wedlock; 
How have my mother's eyes been fixed on thee ! 
In joy, at first — the happy, wealthy bride 
Of a good man! — and then in that great sorrow 
Which fell upon her heart, when death came down 
And left her in her early widowhood ! 
Next, came the o'erwhelming agony of life — 
Outraged affection ; crushed and withered hope ; 
The blight of being — poverty ; and shame, 
For a lost, guilty son I — how turned she then 
Her dimmed eyes upon thee! 

Oh, thou mute thing 
That yet reproachest with a tongue of fire ; 
I hear thy admonition! I will fly 
To her and save her! [He hastens out. 



SCENE VIII. 

A meanly funiisked garret — a poor woman at her 
work ; a knock is heard — she opens tlie door, and 
Raymond enters. 

Raym. Lives here not Madam Berthier, my good 
woman ? 

Worn. Alas, sir, no ! — she died a week ago. 

Raym. Died — woe's me! Said you truly she 
was dead ? 

Worn. Yes, sir, she died, and of a broken heart, — 
I knew her heart was breaking at the first. 
They who have had much sorrow know its signs 
Howe'er disguised ; and I have had my share. 

Raym. Good woman, let me take this seat, I 'm 
faint. 

Worn. Alas, sir, then you knew poor Madam Ber- 
thier — 
Methought she had no friends, and none that loved 
her! 

Raym. Died she within this room ? 

Worn. Upon that bed — 

A poor, mean bed: yet was she thankful for't. 

Raym. Oh, she was used to many stately comforts ; 
And she died there ! 

Worn. Ay ; now, methinks, I see her. 

With her thin clasped hands and sunken eyes. 
Praying to Heaven to bless a graceless son, 
That had reduced her unto poverty ! 

Raym. Alas, alas ; he was a cruel son ! 

Worn. He must have been a cruel, wicked man ; 
For to the very last he did distress her 
With unjust, never-ending claims for money. 
The few things that she left of worn-out garments 
Could hardly bury her! 

Raym. Poor martyred saint! 

The curse of heaven will light upon her son ! 

Worn. Good sir, it would have melted his hard 
heart 
To have seen her die ! Her last prayer was for him — 
A prayer that would have moved a heart of stone. 
She always called him her poor prodigal — 
She was an angel, sir ; a meek, good angel ! 

[She weeps. 



Raym. [giving a few gold pieces.] 
Take these ; and may the Almighty Lord of mercy 
Bless thee, for thy compassion to this woman ! 

^Yom. Heaven bless you, sir, for I have seven 
small children — 
Seven fatherless little ones ! 

Raym. Alas for you ; 

And I pray God, that of the seven, there be 
No prodigal ! 

[He hurries out. 

Worn. Ah, 'tis some man of sorrow — 

Some conscience-stricken prodigal, may be — 
Perchance the son of Madame Berthier! 
Perchance, say I? — I know it was her son. 
Christ give him penitence ; for a mighty sin 
Lies on his soul — the blood of that good mother ! 



ACT III. — SCENE I. 

The house of Madame Vaumar — she and Clara sitliiig 
together. 

Mad. V. Thou foolish girl, — with all a woman's 
weakness, 
But not a woman's pride ! Why, this great Count 
Will make an empress of thee ! 

Clara. Dearest mother. 

It is in vain to urge — I will not see him ! 

Mad. V. Not see him ! He, the courtliest gentle- 
man ; 
High in the Prince's favour ; one that keeps 
The best establishment in all the city — 
Coaches and horses, hounds and liveried servants ; 
Splendour at home, magnificence abroad. 
I '11 lay my life this count will marry thee ! 

Clara. It moves me not — Indeed I could not wed 
him; 
Although I know the honour is so great ! 

Mad. V. Not wed him ? Why there 's not another 
woman 
But thinks it heaven, if he but look at her. 

Clara. Their reasoning is not mine ! No, mother, no ! 
If 't were the Prince, I would not break my faith ! 
Hast thou forgot the never-ending kindness ; 
The long-tried zeal ; the goodness of poor Raymond ! 
There was a time when thou didst smile on him ; 
Call him thy friend ; and say that it was heaven 
If he but looked on us ! 

Mad. V. Thou simple child ; 

Wilt never learn the wisdom of the world ! 
Why, he 's been acting the wild prodigal. 
And now has spent his substance. All the city 
Knows he is penniless ! 

Clara. Kind, generous heart ! 

For us he spent his substance ; and we now. 
Like common worldlings, owing him so much, 
Forsake him in his need. No, mother, no ; 
In good or ill, I never will desert him ! 
My heart is his, and so shall be my hand, 
If e'er I wed ! 

Mad. V. Thou wed a ruined man — 
A man, for whom the prison doors do gape ! 

51 



42 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thoa marry Raymond ! when Count Siemar woos. 
I will disown thee, Clara, if thou do, — 
And may the curse of poverty cling to you, 
Like cureless leprosy ! 

Clara. Hush, dearest mother! 

Surely thou dost not know what true love is ! 
To shrine within the heart's core, one dear image ; 
To think of it all day, and all the night ; 
To have sweet dreams of it I Thou dost not know 
What 't is to be beloved ; to see the soul 
Beaming from eyes all tenderness and truth ! 

Mad. V. Wild, raving foolery ! Tell me not of love, 
It is a word of mere conventional use, 
That passes among men like forged coin. 
Current at first ; till time, that all things proves, 
Reveals it of base metal ! 

Clara. You forget 

How Raymond paid the Jew — and how since then 
He has heaped favours on us ! 

Mad. V. Tell me not 

Of favours everlastingly, and gifts ! 
I 'm weary of their memory, as of him. 
To-morrow eve Count Siemar will be here ; 
And I command thee, meet him graciously ; 
And wear thy velvet bodice and thy diamonds ! 

Clara. I '11 wear my diamonds for no man but 
Raymond ! 
But if thou love me, dearest, best of mothers, 
Urge me not thus! I do not love Count Siemar — 
My heart aches, and my soul is full of sorrow ! 

Mad. V. Let go my hand ! hast thou not heard my 
words ! 
Let go my hand, for I have much to do. 
Thou know'st my will ; nor shall I pardon thee 
If thou dare disobey ! [She goes out. 

Clara. 'T is seven days 

Since I beheld his face ; seven weary days — 
And calumny since then, his precious name 
Hath charactered in lies ; and turned men's hearts 
From him — ay, let them turn ; and woman's smile. 
Let it change too — let it become a proverb, 
A word despised and loathed, it matters not — 
To me, he still is Raymond ! Shame with him 
I would prefer, to glory with another ; 
Even were he richer, nobler than Count Siemar ! 
But let me hence, and in my silent chamber 
Nerve my sick heart to meet the morrow's guest. 
If so, I must — yet will I not deceive 
Coimt Siemar in this matter! 

[She goes out. 

SCENE II. 

Night — Raymond's chamber, lighted hy a lamp ; 
Raymond, in a loose dressiiig-gown, starting from 
the bed on which he had thrown nimself: 

The furies were no fiction ! Sad Orestes 
Fled not from land to land from a vain shadow I 
They are no fiction — would to heaven they were ! 
No ! they are present with me, night and day — 
Spectres of days, and months, and years misspent ; 
Of talents wasted — hopes which I have murdered I 
Too late I know my folly — peace is gone ; 



And hope and self esteem ; and that calm joy. 

The fruit of virtuous days, and tranquil nights ! 

My friends, the early and the kind, are lost ; 

My cold neglect has broken a mother's heart, 

'Mid shameful, miserable poverty. — 

My lawless life has tarnished a good name ; 

My thriftless cost has ruined a fair fortune — 

My sinful course has shattered a strong frame ! 

Men, that I should have scorned in my pure years, 

Are now my sole companions — thus I 'm fallen ! 

Oh, that I were again a happy boy. 

Conning my book beneath the orchard-trees, 

Without a care from morn to eventide ! 

Where are those lovely visions of my youth — 

Fair fame, and Adeline ; and sons, and daughters. 

Growing around us in my native home — 

Where ? with the things that were — my peace of mind, 

My innocence, my health and my good name ! 

[A bell tolls the first hour of the morning. 
Midnight is past — the morning hath begun ; 
My doom will be, one night, without a morning! 
Millions on millions from the earth have passed 
Unto the eternal day; but I am one 
Made for the blackness of enduring night; 
A reprobate ! cast by the Eternal Father 
From his great scheme of pardon ; the dear blood 
Of Christ was never shed for my redemption ; 
And if I should bow down and cry for mercy, 
My cry would be a damning blasphemy ! 

[He paces the room in despair ; then throws 
open the vdndow and looks out. 
So shone the moon, so looked the paly stars 
In the gone years of my pure innocence ! 
'T is even so I — and this is my birth-night ! 
Alas, alas, and where is that kind mother, 
That made of old, this eve a festival ? 
The solemnest, yet the happiest of the year ! 
Of old it passed not a forgotten time. 
Unnoted, but for some chance circumstance ! 
Of old I had a memory for all joy; 
And read my Bible, and believed that Christ, 
Blessing the pure in heart, had blessed even rae; 
And that belief brought blessings, like the visits 
Of angels entertained unawares. 
Of old I laid rae down to rest at night, 
And said my prayers, and put my trust in God! 
Of old I had no fears, nor black remorse, 
That sered my soul and withered up my being; 
Love, peace, and joy, and duty, all fulfilled. 
Made every day a joyful festival ! 
Why died I not in that good time of grace ; 
In those most blessed days of innocence. 
That knew not sin, and therefore knew not sorrow ? 
[He turns slowly away ; and seeing his 
father's Bible, opens it and reads. 
" I say unto you, that likewise joy shall be in hea- 
ven over one sinner that repenteth, more than over 
ninety and nine just persons, who need no repent- 
ance." 

[He closes the book, covers his face with 
his handf, and weeps bitterly. A loud 
knocking is heard at his door, and 
Bartolin enters, hurriedly. 
5% 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



43 



liaym. Villain, how now ! 

Bar. No time is this for wrath ! 

I am but come to warn you against danger. 
Hence with you to your hiding-place ! One hour 
From now, and you are in a dungeon ! 
The myrmidons of law have gained access 
Within your doors, and now approach your chamber, 
Armed with authority : fly, fly hence ! 
Or, better still, with me — give me your hand; 
In wrath we parted, let us meet as friends ! 

Raym. Begone with you ! ofl" with your fawnings 
vile ; 
I loathe them as your counsel — get you hence ! 
Bar. Even as you list, fiiir sir ; so fare ye well ! 
[/fe goes out ; a tumult is heard below — 
Raymond, wrapping himself 171 a cloak, 
goes out by a private door. 



SCENE III. 

The interior of a gaming house — parties of gentlemen 
sit drinliing wine in various parts of the room, others 
are playing at dice ; Raymond, pale and with a con- 
tracted brow, playing with Count Siemar ; Bartolin 
stands apart, as one of the servants of the establish- 
ment, observing Raymond, who has played all the 
evening with ill-luck. 

Count S. [faking up money.] Despair not, Sir — 
Fortune 's a fickle goddess ; 
The next turn will be yours, "faint heart ne'er won;" 
You know what says the proverb, " gold nor ladies." 
Bar. [aside.] Most sapient Raymond; bible-read- 
ing fool ! 
Is this the end of your religious fervour? 

[He looks at a small billet. 
Within the dainty folds of this smooth paper 
Lie words which, like some cabalistic signs. 
Have fear and death in them! Ha, ha I Count Siemar; 
Thou keepest carelessly a lady's secret, 
Else hadst thou never dropped this perfumed paper ! 
[Raymond again loses the game ; hejUngs 
down his last gold, hurls the dice upun 
the floor, and slarts up with furious 
gesitures. 
Ten thousand curses fall upon all play ! 
Ten thousand curses on the dupes of it ! 
I am a ruined man, beyond retrieve — 
I am a cursed, ruined, wretched man ! [pours out wine. 
[Aside.] Let this assist my purpose — fool, foul, fool! 
Most senseless fool! But let me drink, and die ! 

[He drinks — Bartolin goes out ; Raymond 
throws on his cloak and rushes out also. 



SCENE IV. 

The porch, leading into the street ; enter Raymond, like 
one beside himself, with his hand on his dagger. 

Bartolin. [presenting the billet.] This sir, to yours, 
but to none other hand ; 
Thus were my orders, absolute — Good night ! 

6* 



Raym. [reads.] " My daughter has consented to 
be yours; we will expect you at the appointed hour. 
Raymond is a penniless prodigal. Adieu." 

[Turning to the address 
" To the most honourable Count Siemar." 
And thus writes Madame Vaumar to Count Siemar! 
And this is Clara's faith ! Oh most accursed — 
Oh most unkind, perfidious of deceivers ! 
Some strange mistake has given to me the billet 
Intended for my rival. But 'tis well — 
The veil at length is torn from my delusion ! 
I am a penniless prodigal ! ha, ha! 
A penniless prodigal ! and they who robbed me, 
Make this the plea for my abandonment! 
I am their jest no doubt, their merriment! 
A prodigal! Count Siemar is a saint. 
And shall this night make elsewhere reckoning — 
And Madame Vaumar shall hear news to-night. 
Other than of her daughter's marriage-day ! 

[He wraps his cloak around him, and walks 
sullenly away. 



SCENE V. 

Midnight — a dark and lonely street in the suburbs; 
enter COUNT SIEMAR, singing in a low voice. 

Come, pledge me in this cup of wine, 

And let us have a joyful night. 
Thou hast my heart, thy heart is mine — 

Why should we part ere morning light! 
Come, pledge me in this brimming cup — 

Raymond [rushing upon him with his dagger.] 
And she consented to be yours to-night! 
Yours, traitor ! take you this — and this — and this. 
For a bride's portion ! [He stabs hiin many times.] 
Count S. [drawing his weapon.] Help! 'gainst a 
murderer! 
Ah, villain ! is it you ? 

Help! help! or 'tis too late! 
[He falls. 
Raym. [striking him again.] Ye said I was a pro- 
digal ! ay, ay — see then 
I '11 be as prodigal of thrusts as gold ! 

Count S. [faintly.] Oh heavens, I am a murdered 
man ; and none 
Are near to help! 

For Christ's sake, give me help ! 
God pardon me ! for I have been a siimer ! 

Watch7nen. [in the distance.] We hear the cry — 
and help is now at hand ! 

[Raymond sheaths his dagger, and passes 
off in an opposite direction. 
Watchmen. The voice was in this quarter; and 
see there 
Lies the poor murdered — yonder flies the murderer! 
[Part pursue Raymond ; others surround 
Count Siemar. 
1st IV. Ah, what a horrid pool of blood is here ! 
2nd W. Run, call a doctor! lime may not be lost! 
[3rd Watchman runs off. 
1st W. [kneeling down by the Count.] A doctor wiU 
be here in half a minute — 
53 



44 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In the meantime give us your name, good sir, 
And we will call your friends, or take you to them. 
Counl S. [very fainlhj.] I am Count Siemar ! all 
the city knows me — 
My murderer is one Berthier, a base man ! 
2nd W. What does he say ? 
ls< IV. It is the great Count Siemar ! 

2nd IV. Oh, woful chance ! 
!''< ^V- The prince will pay us richly 

For help we give — let 's bpar him to the palace ! 

[Tlietj attempt to raise him. 
Counl S. It is too late— too late ! let me die here ! 

[He dies. 
1st W. If you have any message for the living, 
Speak it within my ear, most noble sir. 

[He listens for some lime. 
He 's dead ! alas, all 's over with him now ! 
2nd W. Ah, what a cruel murder — 

God have mercy 
Upon his soul! 

Enter 3rd watchm.w and doctor. 

ls< TV. He is stone-dead, poor soul ! 

2nd \V. And 't is no other than the great Count 

Siemar ! 
Doctor, [after examining the body.] It is too late ! 
there is no life within him — 
He has had seven wounds ; the least were mortal ! 
Alas poor Count! But call ye the police, 
And let the base assassin be pursued I 
And this deformed body, carry ye 
Unto the palace. 

[They raise the body, and all move off. 



SCENE VI. 

Midnight — savage glen among mountains' — thujider 
and lightning, with furious gusts of wind. 

Enter Raymond, in a monh's habit. 
For these seven days, like an ill-omened thing 
Skulking in dens, and lonesome hideous caves, 
I have sustained my life with roots and herbs, 
And quenched my thirst with water of the rock ; 
Meet sustenance Ibravile murderer! 
Thus wandered Cain, through melancholy years, 
A fugitive and vagabond ! I loo, 
Thrust out from man, and the kind charities 
That humanize, bear with me a black curse 
That makes my being an enduring death ! 

[The lightning strikes a tree before him. 
Death is a-nigh me ! would that the fierce bolt, 
That now has smitten yon branched, vigorous oak 
From its rock-fortress, like a slender reed. 
Crashing and shivering to the vale below. 
Had smitten me in its stead, and in a moment 
Ended my woe ! The undefined future. 
Once so terrific in its mjstery. 
Hath not more terror now than hath the present. 
In its o'ermaslering con.sciousness of guilt ! 

[The storm rages more fearfulbi ; trees are 
torn up, loose crags tumbled into the 



glen, and sounds of the gathering tem- 
pest are heard in all the hollows of the 
mountains. 
Even like this outward tempest are the pangs 
Of merciless remorse ; but to the one 
Succeeds a calm — no calm succeeds the other! 

At nightfall I descried a lonely hut. 
Scarcely discernible from rocks and stones, 
But for its roof of black and shaggy furze. 
And the wind-scattered smoke that showed the eye 
'T was human habitation. Here about, 
Among these crags, it lay. Another flash 
Will show it through the darkness — 

Ah, 't is here ! 
CJloomy and lone, a place of guilt it seems, 
Yet will I enter, for I wildly long 
To see again a human countenance ! 

[He knocks at the door, which is opened by 
an Old Man. 
Raym. Father, I crave the shelter of your roof 
From this night's storm! 
Old Man. Ay, enter, thou art welcome. 

{He goes in. 



SCENE VII. 

The interior of a miserable shed, lighted only by a 
small wood fire,— the Old Man and Raymond sit by 
the fire. 



Old Man. Com'st from the city ? 
Raym. Seven days since, I left it. 

Old Man. Thou heard'st then of one Berthier, 
how he murdered 
The great Count Siemar? 

Raym. Yes, I heard of it — 

But I just left the city as it happened. 
Old Man. Thou didst not hear then, how from 
sanctuary 
He made escape, in habit of a monk ; 
Nor of the damning stain he has afllxed 
Unto his memory, black enough without it? 
Raym. Good father, no ; what is 't ?— I know it not ! 
Old Man. Why, that ftjir thing, who risked her 
life for his. 
As she had done her good name heretofore, 
Was found next morning dead! 
Raym. Dead ! say'st thou, father? 

Old Man. Ay, on the altar stone, which of her 
blood 
Will ever keep the stain — the altar 
Where he Ibund sanctuary — and in the city 
'T is thought he murdered her ! 
Raym. That did he not ! 

Old Man Art of his council then ? Perchance 
thou know'st him — 
Perchance did furnish that poor faithful girl. 
With means of his deliverance? 
Raym. [after pacing the room several times, and 
struggling with his emotions. 
Father, my limbs are weary — let me rest 
1 pray thee, on this straw. 

54 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



45 



Old Man. Rest, if" you can ! 

[The Old Man liglUs a small lamp, and 
places it go as to throw the light on 
the countenance of Raymond, and then 
nils dov>n beside him. 

Raym. Father, I thank thee for thy courtesy; 
But ihy lamp's light I need not, and I fain 
Would slumber unobserved. 

Old Man. A monarch's taste, 

Who unobserved would hold his meditations! 

Raym. Old man, a mighty sorrow weighs my soul : 
Thou hast not passed tliy three-score years and ten, 
Without experience of some human pangs — 
Respect my sorrow then, and give me peace! 

Old Man. Sorrow, the wise have said, is born of sin ; 
And peace lies nowhere but witiiin the grave. 

Raym. Alas I thy words are true. 

Old Man. Can'st not repent? — 

This is another way of getting peace. 
And he who askelh shall receive, 't is said. 

Raym. Some sins there are, repentance cannotcure ! 

Old Man. Yet they are few — 't is a long catalogue 
Of pardonable sins. The dire offences 
Scarce number seven — thus the sin 'gainst know- 
ledge ; — 
'Gainst parents disobedience, which shall bring 
Their grey hairs to the grave with bitter sorrow; — 
Luring the innocent to black perdition ; — 
Denying God, whclher by word or deed ; — 
And lastly,doing murder — these are deadly. 
But who of them is guiltless, need not fear — 
And these, my son, thou can'st not have committed — 
Thou art too young for such black sins as these ! 

Raym. God knows my sin — I do confess to none. 

Old Man. Thou dost belie thy habit — for ye teach 
That a great virtue lieth in confession. 

Raym. Cease, cease to trouble me — leave me alone ! 

Old Man. From me far be it to disturb thy soul, 
I will withdraw. 

[He goes into an inner room. 

Raym. My sins are those he named — 

Mine are those deadly sins — there is no pardon — 
With God there is no pardon — nor wi:h man. 
And she dead ! — then what boots it to live on ! 
I am an outcast from the lace of man — 
Caves are my hiding-places, and my food 
The miserable product of a soil 
Cursed for some ancient sin ! Why should I live ? 
None love me on the earth — my crimes have made 
My being desolation, and brought ruin 
Upon the faitlifulest spirit ! Let me die ! 

[He tafies a small phial from his boso}n. 
Misery did arm me thus against myself — 
I drink to death. Death, be a gracious friend 
Unto a wretched soul that flies to thee ! 

[He drinhs. 
Soul, gird thyself, a journey lies before thee. 
From which no human voice can call thee back! 

[He lies down, closes his eyes, and remains 

for some minutes motionless. Meantime 

the Old Man comes forth as BartoUn, 

and stands beside him. 

Raym. Oh, hast thou found me here, mine enemy ! 



Bar. Thou sought'st thyself the shelter of my roof! 
Raym. Lying dissembler, thou hast fooled my soul ! 
May heaven avenge my blackest sins upon thee, 
Thou tempter unto evil ! 

Death is with me — 
The dimness of the grave doth seize on me ! 

[He falls back. 
[Aside,] Mine enemy shall not behold the pangs 
Tliat rack my leeble being. I will die 
In rigid, groanless silence ! 

Bar. Ilis hair is white ; 

The furrows of old age are on his cheeks, 
And yet his years are few — oh, sin and sorrow, 
What foes are ye to manly strength and beauty ! — 
See, his clenched hands — his rigid, stone-like brow — 
His grinding jaws, and those thick-starting dews, 
Like water-drops ; these are the outward signs 
Of the great mortal struggle ! 

Raym. [Openitjg his eyes, which have a glazed, wild 
look, and speaking like one in a dream.] 
I hear (heir mournful voices! my heart liiints — 
Alas, alas, I am undone — undone! 
Darkness is with me, but mine ears are open ! 
Oh, was a human soul of so great worth 
That angels mourn for it? My God, my God ! 
Hark once again — there is a wail in heaven ! 

[The tempest without gains strength, and 
low wailing sounds are heard, as of 
spiritual voices. 
Mourn, mourn celestial spirits. 
Angels of God who have your thrones on high ! 
O cease your triumph, bright-eyed cherubim; 
Sons of the morning, let your light be dim ; 
And let there go through heaven a wailing cry ! 
One that was meant of your bright host to be. 
Hath fallen, fallen ! 
A human soul hath lost its heavenward way, 
The cruel tempter hath received his prey ! 
O wretched soul, nevi-born to misery, 
How art thou fallen ! 
Alas, how art thou fiillen ! 
[The countenance of Raymond becomes more 
ghastly, the convulsions of death succeed, 
and he expires with a deep groan. Bar- 
toUn walks out in silence ; and, after a 
pause, the hut is filed with a s!rain of sad 
and low music, as if accompanied by the 
following words : 

A song of mourning let each one take up! 

Take up a song of woe — 
The spirit is gone forth to the unknown, 

Yet mightier pangs to know ! 
Oh thou, that wast so beautiful in youth. 

How is thy beauty dimmed ! 

We that in gladness hymned 
The kindness of thy early love and truth, 

Shall we not mourn fiir thee. 

Lost from our company, 
Oh erring human soul I 

Take up a song of woe, 
A song of mourning let each one begin ! 
The spirit is gvne forth, 



46 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Stained with mortal sin ! 
Oil star, shorn of" thy beams, 

How is thy glory gone. 
Since from the living streams 

Thou burst, a shining one! 
Oh star, shorn of thy beams 
In blaciiness of thick darkness wandering now, 
Through night that has no day, 
Through pain that has ho stay ; 
O'er seas that have no shore, 
Wandering for evermore. 
Lost, lost, art Ihou ! 

Oh spirit, vext with fears, by tempests tost, 
Oh new-born heir of unthought misery ! 

Long shall we mourn for thee, 
From our bright company. 
For ever, ever lost ! 



The cruel nature of Achzib was unmoved by the 
moral ruin before him ; in him was neither pity nor 
remorse. 

" As the tree falleth," said he, " so it lieth ; and 
there is no repentance in the grave !" While he thus 
spoke, the Pastor entered. " Grant me the shelter of 
thy roof," said he, "for one hour; and when the 
storm hath abated, I will pursue my journey." 

" Whither dost thou journey ?" inquired Achzib. 

"I seek a lost sheep of my Father's fold," replied 
the old man sorrowfully. 

"Behold I" said Achzib, lifting the cloak from the 
face of the dead, "him whom thou seekest — Ray- 
mond — who hath even now committed self-murder!" 

"My son! my son!" exclaimed the pastor falling 
upon his knees beside the body. " Alas, my son, hast 
thou gone forth to the eternal judgment with this 
mortal sin upon thy soul !" and he buried his face in 
his hands, and wept like a woman. 

" This man must have been dear unto thee !" said 
Achzib, interrupting the Pastor's sorrow. 

"Oh!" replied he, rising, " the human soul is \ery 
precious ; and this man was dear to me, even as a 
son !" 

" He hath confessed to me much and grievous sin," 
said Achzib. 

" Alas, he was a sinner, but I had hoped the day 
of grace was not over ;" replied the Pastor, — " he 
was a great sinner, yet was not his nature evil ; re- 
morse followed crime, and heart-stinging repentance. 
God had not wholly abandoned him, and he who 
knows how we are templed, knows also how to for- 
give!" 

" Methinks," said Achzib, "thou would'st excuse 
the sinner ; thou would'st destroy the distinction be- 
tween virtue and vice." 

" Nay, nay," replied the Pastor, " I know we are 
all sinners, and this young man the chiefe.st of them ; 
but I dare not limit the mercy of God. I remember 
the thief on the cross ; the publicans and sinners of 
the Gospel ; and I hoped, that though he siiould not 
have found pardon from the justice of man, he might 



yet have found pardon with heaven." — And again 
the aged man covered his face and wept. 

" I will leave thee to thy meditations," said Ach- 
zib, and went out. The Pastor combated his emo- 
tion, and approached the dead ; he lifted the already 
whitened locks from the young man's forehead. 
" Oh my son, my son !" exclaimed he, in the words 
of the royal mourner, " would God, I had died for 
thee ! ' P'ather, which art in heaven,' " said the old 
man, falling on his knees, " prayer availeth not for 
the dead ; thy justice hath determined what is meet : 
but oh, by the tears our Lord shed for Lazarus; 
by the bloody sweat, the trembling spirit, and the 
mortal agony, I pray thee, if it be possible, pity and 
forgive! Oh, let the blood shed on Mount Calvary 
avail somewhat — let the prayer for the murderers 
avail— 'Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do!' 

" If there was good in him, though less than an 
atom, remember it— I know thou wilt, for thou art 
merciful ; and even in the midst of despair, I bless 
thee. I bless thee, for the remorse which lived in 
the heart of this sinner— I bless thee, for the suffering 
he endured— the poverty, the shame, the hunger, the 
nakedness, which would not let him forget thee !— 
I bless thee, that thou didst not leave his sin unpun- 
ished in this world ! These grey hairs, this defaced 
youth; pain of body and anguish of mind, — these, 
oh Father! I will accept as tokens of mercy. Thou 
knowest the strength of temptation, thou knowest 
the weakness of human nature. Oh, pity and for- 
give!" 

The Pastor rose from his knees; the cold grey 
light of the morning struggled fiiintly through the 
small window; but Achzib had not yet returned. 
Without waitmg for his coming, the Pastor composed 
as well as he mighl, the rigidly convulsed limbs, and 
prepared the body for interment. Kear the hut he 
found a hollow in the bosom of the mountam, scoped 
by nature as if for a grave; and made strong by 
Christian love, thither he bore the dead. No man 
witnessed the deed ; and the departing Pastor ex- 
claimed, "I leave thee to man's oblivion, and God's 
mercy." 



Achzib was once more among men, looking for a 
victim. He heard of wars, and rumours of wars. 
He heard of a tyrannous ruler, and an oppressed 
people, and he said, "I will go there." 



PHILIP OF MAINE. 



PERSONS. 

PHILIP OF MAI.XE. 

TtlE LORD OF MAINE, HIS FATHER. 

ACHZIB, A stranger; afterwards QASTOX, 

THE PATRIOT. 
THE LORD OF KRONBERG. 
IDA KRONBERG, HIS DAUGHTER. 

56 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



47 



BERTHA, HER COUSIN. 

ARNOLD, HENRY, CONRAD, AND ROLAND, LEAD- 
ERS OF THE PEOPLE. 

MOTHER SCHWARTZ, THE FORGE-WOMAN ; JAN, 
HER SON, AND HANS CLEF, LEADERS OF THE 
RABBLE. 

COUNTS NICHOLAS, SEGBERT, AND FABIAN, AD- 
HERENTS OF LORD KRONBEKG. 

SOLDIERS, AND OTHER SUBORDINATE CHARAC- 
TERS. 



ACT L — SCENE I. 

A magnificent room in the Caslle of Kronberg. 

Enter the lord of kronberg, and philip of maine. 

Lord of Kronberg. Good, good ! you seek alliance 

with my house ! 
Philip of Maine. I do, my lord. 
Lord of K. What next, fair sir ! 

PMl.ofM. The honour 

Of your fair daughter's hand I ask, nought more. 
Lord of K. Nought to maintain her on ! no mar- 
riage dower — 
No broad lands, as a daughter's appanage ? 
Phil, of M. I asked her, for herself! Broad lands 
and dower 
Came not within my count. 

Lord of K. True, true, most true ! 

The heir of Maine doth count so little gold. 
He wots not of its worth ! A wife, young man, 
Would add some items to your yearly charges! 
Phil, of M. Too well I know the fortunes of our 
house 
Are not, what once they were — scoff" not, my lord. 
An emperor's daughter has allied with us; 
And 'tis an ancient, honourable house : 
1 will retrieve its fortunes! good my lord, 
My youth is in its prime — the wars are open — 
'T was by the strong right hand, we won our honours! 
Lord of K. Wouldst be a wooer, ay ? wouldst 
woo my daughter ? 
Art worth a sword? canst draw one? canst thou 

ride ? 
Canst hunt? canst hold a hawk? canst read? canst 

write ? 
I wot not of a roof to your old house. 
And yet thou'dst woo — wouldst take a wife, for- 
sooth ! 
The noble Ida Kronberg ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Phil, of M. My lord, I do not take a taunt un- 
' moved ; 

\ Nor do I ask a favour undeserved — 
' Were your fair daughter, ten times nobler still, 
1 do but ask my equal ! 

Lord of K. Upstart fool ! 

I Wouldst match thyself with me ! 
I Phil, of M. Nor have I asked 

This honour uninvited ! Your own mouth 
I Swore to vouchsafe whate'er my tongue should crave, 

For certain trivial service, at my rating ; 
I At yours, — for loyalty beyond all price! 

y 11 



Lord ofK. What! dost thou ask my daughter as 
the payment 
Of such poor service, as a peasant lad 
Had done for half a guilder ! 

Phil, of M. Good, my lord. 

If you forget the service, so do I — 
Cut not that we are foes ! 

Lord of K. Audacious rebel, 

Wouldst beard me to my face! I tell thee, traitor, 
I have mine eyes upon thee, and thy father — 
I know wherefore ye harbour in your walls 
The disaffected rabble — why thou comest 
To ask alliance with me, then to beard me! 

Phil, of M. My lord, this quarrel was not of my 

seeking. 
Lord of K. Too long I have forborne ! I know 
your views — 
I know what your ambition lusteth after: 
Words you can give, where words weigh more tlian 

gold; 
Can stir up the fierce spirit of the people ; 
Call them oppressed, poor, wronged, and injured peo- 
ple ! 
Phil, cf M. I came not now as pleader of their 
cause. 
Or, to your face, I 'd tell you, you 're a tyrant ! 
Think but of those poor workers in the loom. 
All dying in your streets, who might have earned 
A decent maintenance, save for your edict — 
Listen to their demands, they are but just ! 
Lord of K. Wouldst thou dictate this, that, and 
the other to me ? — 
Demand my daughter first, then rule the state ? 
Phil, of M. Who 're they that cry for bread morn- 
ing and night, 
WHiom you refuse a morsel ? Your poor burghers, 
Whose fathers fought for you ! They are not stones, ■ 
That they should not complain ! 

Lord of K. 'T is such as you. 

With busy meddling, that disturb their souls ! 
But get thee hence ! and let me counsel thee — 
Go marry thee, to some poor plodder's daughter 
Will keep your house in order, mend thy hose. 
And patch the old man's doublet ! 

Phd. of M. Name him not; 

That noble, gtx)d old lord, or by the gods, 
I shall forget myself! 

Lord of K. Hence with thee, prating fool ! 

Hence with thee, ere I summon one, whose trade 
Is to chastise young insolence like thine ! 
Phil, of M. A day may come, when we will count 
for this ! [He goes out. 

Lord of K. And this is he, to whom the people look 
As to a new Messiah! Heaven and earth ! 
Am I to stand girt round with armed men. 
And thus be threatened ? — What are dungeons for. 
But to confine such rebels! Out ujwn me, 
To let such meddlers loose! Marry my daughter! 
By Jove, I '11 marry him to the strongest chains 
Within my deepest dungeon! 

Those old dues. 
Which as my vassals they have long withstood, 
j I will demand, and lay strong hold on them 

57 



48 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As forfeit of the soil ! Go to, I '11 do it ; 
And come what will, I '11 crush this house of Maine ! 

[He goes out. 



SCENE II. 

Ida's apartment — Ida and Bertha together — Bertha 
has a bunch of lilies of the valley in her hand. 

Ida. Nay, blame him not ! Why need he shun to ask 
My hand in marriage openly ? He 's brave, 
My father knows he is ; and his descent 
Is noble as mine own ; and this adventure 
Hath given such fair advantage to his suit 
That he may freely, fearlessly avow it ! 

Berth. He has avowed, and is a fool for's pains! 
For what must he come here to make a quarrel — 
To spoil the daintiest romance that e'er 
Gladdened the dull life of a castled lady ! 
I told thee how 't would be — I knew my uncle 
Better than thou or he did! 

Ida. But he swore 

That he should have his asking, be 't what 't would ; 
And that their ancient hate should be forgotten : — 
I know he '11 not gainsay 't ! 

Berth. He will ! he has ! 

And even now has sworn his utter ruin — 
It is one thing to promise while in danger, 
But a far different to fulfil in safety. 
There is a gulph of hate, wider than ever. 
That sunders you, which love can ne'er o'erpass ! 

Ida. Nay, Bertha, nay, Philip will ne'er desert 
me ! 

Berth. Philip hath gone from hence as black as 
night; 
I never saw rage look more terrible — 
I met him on the stair. 

Ida. What said he to thee? 

Berth. He saw me not, nor spoke, but stalked on, 
muttering ; 
And while his eyes flashed fire, he flung these flowers 
Under his very feet, as if they were 
The reason of his anger. 

Ida. Not those flowers! 

Berth Ay, but he did, as if their touch defded 
him ! 

Ida. Well, then, it is an augury of ill ! 
Those flowers were mine, and he knew how I loved 

them. 
I think I never told thee why I loved 
The lily of the valley. 

Berth. No, sweet cousin. 

Ida. I'll tell thee now, it suiteth the occasion. 
'Twixt Maine and Kronberg was there ever feud — 
Our love seemed almost an unnatural thing; 
Our fathers hated, like their sires of old ; 
And who was strongest, trod the other down, 
As we do them. Their line was in decay ; 
The ancient state had fallen from their house ; 
Nought but its name remained ; my father saw it, 
And triumphed in their fall. The Lord of Maine 
Hated my father with no lesser hate ; 



And each decaying vestige of his greatness. 
Provoked a curse upon us. Strange it was, 
Our fathers hating thus, our mothers loved, 
And were each other's dear, though secret friend. 
And yet they were so different ! 

My sweet mother 
Was a mild, delicate lady, meek and timid — 
She had hard measure dealt her by her husband ; 
Alas, that I should say 't, and yet 't was so ! 
She had no friend to counsel or console her, 
Save Philip's mother; and to her she opened 
Her inmost bleeding heart. Oh, how I loved 
The Lady of Maine for weeping with my mother! — 
She was a Lutheran; a grave, stern woman. 
Of a majestic presence ; such a one 
As would have kept a fortress through a siege. 
And died ere she had yielded! — I can see her. 
In her black velvet robe, and hooded coif. 
Sitting beside my mother, and out-pouring 
Her eloquent consolations. I then wondered 
What they could mean — I understood them after! 
And I remember, from my earliest childhood. 
Whene'er my father went unto the chase, 
We paid our secret visits ; — he ne'er knew 
What a great love there was between our mothers. 
And what a gloomy place was that of Maine ! 
Silent, and full of old, decaying things; 
Old pictures, and old tarnished furniture. 
And I remember roaming up and down 
Its gloomy halls with Philip, then a boy ; 
And all the legends old, he used to tell me. 
Of dames, and warrior-lords, and armed ghosts. 
Live in my memory yet. Ah, 't was unkind 
To fling these flowers away ! — But I 've not told thee 
Wherefore I love those flowers. 
Berth. Well, tell me now. 

Ida. My gentle mother died. 

And I was a bereaved child indeed ! — 
The Lady of Maine came never to our house, 
E'en in my mother's life, and now but seldom 
It was my chance to meet her ; yet she loved me ; 
And when we met, from her maternal heart 
Poured counsel out, and blessing, which sustained 
My orphaned spirit till we met again. 
She was my second mother, well beloved ! 
Philip and I ne'er met for several years ; 
Until one eve as I was wandering out, 
He stood before me, — not the merry boy. 
But the tall, earnest man — so like his mother! 
Ah, gentle cousin, a little moment's space ; 
The glancing of an ej'e ; one spoken word, 
Decides our destiny ! We had been friends, 
Long-parled friends, and with warm hearts we met ! — 
He brougiit me flowers — flowers of that very kind, 
A token from his mother, who e'en then 
Lay at the point of death I Sweet flowers are they, 
Which my poor mother loved, and used to gather 
From out their garden, for they grew not here. 
He knew wherefore I loved them ; — and since then 
They have been flowers that symboUed love between 

us. 
Ah, was it not unkind to fling them hence ? 
His mother died — and we two wept together; 

58 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



49 



But oh, what bliss grew out of that great sorrow! — 
Meetings at morn, at noon, at eventide ! 
What precious hopes of ending that old hate 
By our new love ! My father knew it not — 
Heaven pardon me for that sweet crime of love ! 

Berth. Why risk so dear a stake upon one throw ? 

Ida. My father knows his worth, and the strong 
hold 
He has upon the people ; 't were unwise. 
In these bad times, to make a foe of Philip. 

Berth. Hark, hark, my uncle calleth to the chase! 

Ida. It is a cheerful voice, I 'II not believe 
He is angered, Bertha. Let us go ! 

Berth, [aside.] The deepest waters ever are the 
stillest! [They go out. 



SCENE ni. 

A desolate room in the Castle of Maine — the Lord of 
Maine and a stranger partaking refreshment. 

Lord of M. Yes, sir, three centuries back our 
house held sway 
As princes in this land ; lineally descended 
From the good Emperor Albert: — Three descents 
Give us an emperor's daughter. My grandsire, 
The child of this alliance, was accounted 
The first man of his age : in council great ; 
A valiant soldier, and a statesman wise. 

Strang. That was the celebrated John of Maine. 

Lord of M. The same! all Europe knew him; 
every state 
Had cause to bless him, save the single state 
Which was his patrimony ; small enough. 
And yet a fair domain, though all too small 
For a soul large as his. Hence 'twas involved 
In that great debt which dragged it to the earth, 
Like the wild vine which winds itself about 
Some stately forest-tree, and bows it down; 
Upon whose ruin springs a monstrous growth — 
A loathed, fungus-growth, poisonous and rank ! 

Strang. The House of Kronberg, didst thou plainly 
speak, 
Thou 'dst liken to this thing. 

Lord of M. I name no names ! — 

But eat ; — thou 'rt freely vvelcome ! This poor land 
Hath many weary wanderers who lack bread. 
Eat then, my friend ; there are not many roofs 
That dare give strangers welcome : — 't is coarse fare, 
But what my son and I, and our poor household 
Find palatable. 

Strang. Then, thou hast a son ? 

Lord of M. A fair young man ; some two and 
twenty years 
May be his age ; the sole child of my life. 
A fair young man, the hope of my grey hairs ; 
J 've trained him in all arts that fit a noble. 
Hawking and hunting, and his weapon's use ; 
And nature has endowed him like a prince — 
I 'd match him against any ! Here he comes — 
Judge for thyself; I 've travelled in my time. 
And know what nobles should be. 



Enter philip : he throws down his cap without noticing 
the stranger. 

I 've a guest, 
Philip; I have a guest, thou see'st him not ! 
Phil. I crave your pardon, I observed him not ! 
Lord of M. Where hast thou ridden this morning ? 

— to the chase ? 
Phil. Am I a child to have my actions questioned ? 

Enter hildebrand. 
Hild. Alas, my lord, the horse you have brought in 
All in a foaming sweat, trembling each joint, 
Has dropped down dead ; — it has been over-ridden — 
And 'tis our only horse — none have we left; 
And 'twas so lean ; the carcase will bring nothing ! 
Phil. The devil take the horse! 
Strang, [aside.] A proper youth ! 

r faith, he does the old man's schooling credit ! 
Lord of M. [aside to Philip.] 'T is a strange mood 
is on thee ; all unmeet 
For stranger eyes to witness ! Pray bethink thee, 
Thou art no brawler in the public streets. 
Phil. I know not what I am ! 
Lord nf M. [to the stranger.] Pardon me, friend, 
And hold it not uncourteous, if I crave 
Your absence. 

Strang. Ay, my lord, it is unmeet 

A dog should look into a noble's face 
If his shoe pinch ! 

Phil. How ! dost thou prate again ? 

Strang, [to the Lord of M-] You did propose that 
I should judge myself 
Of your son's breeding ; 'tis a proper youth ! 
I 'd match him against any ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Phil. Out with thee, hound ! Out, or thou shalt be 

gagged ! 
Strang. Farewell ! But as the ghost spoke imto 
Brutus, 
I 'II meet with thee again at Phillippi ! 

[He goes out. 
Lord of M. For shame ! He was a poor man, and 
a stranger! 
Thou hast abashed thy father; and God knows 
It was in honest pride I boasted of thee ! 

Phil. I thank thee not, to make a boast of me ! 
Lord of M. My son, I cannot understand thy hu- 
mour ! 
Phil. Why could'st not breed me up as poor men 
are ? 
Teach me to cringe, to stoop, and humbly beg? 
V/hy could'st not put a hatchet in my hand, 
And train my will to use it ? What am I ? 
Koble ! and yet who may not match with nobles! 
Lord of M. What, hast thou at a tournay ridden 
again. 
And been insulted for thy poverty — 
Again been jeered at for a faded doublet? 
Phil. No! 

Lord of M. Then pray what (*' this arrant foolery? 

Phil. If thou will hear it— hear it ! I have been 

To ask Lord Kronherg's daughter's hand in marriage! 

Lord of M. Thou ask the Lord of Kronberg's 

daughter's hand ! 

59 



50 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Good heavens preserve me! Went and bowed thyself 
Unto that hateful tyrant — asked his daughter! 
Pkil. Well, what of that? Why need'st thou chafe 
it o'er 
As if 'twere strange that I should love a woman ? 
Lord of M. Were there no women in the world 
but her — 
That thou must go and be a cringing fool 
To lliat man of all others ! 

■^'^''- And that man 

Shall bow himself to me, and humbly sue 
That I would wed his daughter! and by heaven 
I will not wed her then ! I '11 have revenge ! 

Lord of M. Peace with these hectoring threats, 
thou boasting fool ! 
What can he do that 's poor and powerless ? 
PliiL Thou should'st have made me base ; have 
crushed my spirit, 
And shaped me out some humbler path to tread ! 
Lord of M. I never bade tiiee ask a wife from 
Kronberg, 
And bow thyself to him, that he might spurn thee ! 
Thou hast abased thyself, and me in thee ; 
Thou an a servile dog, and I could beat thee ! 
Phil. Stand back, old man !— 1 'm in no mood of 
patience — 
Stand back, my father, and provoke me not ! 

[He goes out. 
Lord of M. This was the maddest folly e'er I 
heard of! 
He ask the hand of haughty Kronberg 's daughter! 
Show to that hated house our poverty! 
Present himself a wooer in that garb ! 
Ride on that starveling jade to ask a wife 
From the proud line of Kronberg! 



Enter hildebrand. 
H'i<^- Good, my lord. 

Here have I brought the poor beast's shoes. They'll 

make 
A little towards her price. May't please you, sir, 
To walk to the court yard ? 

[Tie goes out. 
Lord of M. Ay, the poor beast ! 

And this disaster comes of that fool's wooing ; 

[He follows Hildebrand. 



SCENE IV. 

Several days afterwards— an unfrequented road near 
the city — Evening 

Enter the stranger, dressed in the costume of the 

country, as gaston the patriot. 
I owe him payment for his railing words ! 
And with full interest will I pay him back 
Every indignity ! He shall be mine — 
Body and soul, in life and death, be mine! 
I '11 work him to my purpose; for in him 
Lie elements of ruin — pride, ambition. 
And haired and revenge, glossed o'er or hidden 

By a fair show of patriotic virtues 

The very man to be the people's idol! 



Enter philip. 
But here he comes ! Welcome, young heir of Maine ; 
My musings were of thee ! 

P'"-^- And what of me ? 

Art thou not he that with a braggart's threat 
Defied me heretofore ? 

G'a*<- Thy father's guest, 

I owe thee grateful thanks ; but unto thee. 
The patriot-saviour, I owe humble service! 
Phil. I am not used to service — none I need ! 
Gasl. But I will serve thee as thou wott'st not of— 
Give thee revenge on him thy soul has cursed ! 
Phil. t»id I not call thee braggart ? Let me go! 
Gast. Nay, then against thy will I '11 serve thee— 
listen ! 
Like thee, I 've sworn a patriot's deep revenge 
Upon the house of Kronberg— wherefore so° 
It matters not, for whom has he not wronged ? 
And 'tis not I alone have sworn reveni^e, 

Nor thou and I— nor twenty more than us 

But twenty times a thousand in this league 
Are banded heart and hand! 

Phil, [aside.] Yet in despite 

Of my good angel I must listen to him ! 
Gust. Hear'st thou me ? 

•^^'"'- I do, what say'st thou farther? 

Gast. Thou hast dwelt in these sequestered glens 
of Maine. 
And hast not known that the great earth went round ! 
Get thee among the people ; to the herds 
In the remotest dells, and hear them talk ; 
They are more of men than thou ! 
^^'^^- In words, perhaps. 

GasU Stand by the vine-dressers upon the hills, 
And they will be thy teachers ! Ask the mothers,' 
The earliest words her lisping boy shall speak, 
And she will tell thee, curses on the oppressor! 
If these arouse thee not, go to the city. 
And hear the meagre workman at his loom — 
There are who call his muttered musings treason! 

Phil. All this I know— I know they curse the tyrant, 
And they have need. But how know'st thou they 

league 
Together for revolt ? 

G'as'- I am of them ! 

Have bound myself with them— have sworn with 

them. 
To see the downfall of the house of Kronberg ! 
Hast thou a heart to do as thou hast sworn. 
The path is open to thee ; fortune offers 
A golden opportunity ; and thou. 
If thou art the generous patriot that thou seem'st, 
May'st make thy name as great as that of Brutus — 
Be Father and Preserver of the people ! 
Phil. By lawful right, the lordship is our own. 
Gast. The people love you, call you lord already ! 
Phil. Hark ye. my friend, can you gain me access 
To these caballing spirits in the city? 

Gast. Most joyfully! Give me your hand, brave sir- 
You are the man on whom all hearts are set! 
Phil. Let us begone ! 
^"*'- No moment let us lose ! 

[They go off together. 
60 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



51 



SCENE V. 

A large vaulted room, lighted by an iron lamp — 
GasioTt, Arnold, Henry, Conrad, and three soldiers, 
silting round a table, at the head of which is a 
vacant seat. 

Gast. 'T is good to see you here ! Wliat are your 
tidings ? 

Con. Seven hundred men with me, true as the ore 
We dig from out the mines, have ta'en the oath ; 
Men brawny as myself — look at my arms ! 
We are not babes in muscle ; we can deal 
Blows that require no second ! 

Gast. Are ye armed ? 

Con. The half of us are armed ! We 've stinted us 
Of food — have lived like dogs, we and our children, 
To hoard the means that might obtain us arms ! 

Rol. Devoted men ! Antiquity can boast 
No truer hearts than yours ! 

Am. I met, last night, 

In the deep glen of Sarni, fifteen men, 
Sent out from fifteen districts in the hills, 
To swear to us allegiance. Ye may count 
Upon five hundred men, both young and old. 
Serfs of the soil, who have been trampled on 
Till, like the wounded adder, they turn round 
And bite the foot that galls them! There are none 
Truer than these stout children of the soil ! 
They'll do the cause good service ; and for arms, 
Have sworn to turn the sickle and the scythe 
To weapons, that shall mow a harvest down, 
Redder and richer than the fields afford ! 

Gast. 'T is well ! who now is spokesman for the 
army? 

Soldier. All, all are disaffected, as ye know, 
And murmur for their long arrears of pay ! 
And all, excepting four old companies. 
Whom Kronberg by his partial favour won, 
And over whom command Segbert and Nicholas, 
Each several rnan is yours ; and ye may count 
Upon ten thousand good and trusty swords. 
Wielded by hands omnipotent as death. 

Rol. 'Tis the ten thousand of the Grecian story! 
The invincible ten thousand ! 

Gast. Brave, bold hearts ! 

Soldiers of freedom, welcome to the cause I 
And now I scarce need say, that in the city 
Five thousand more are leagued unto our band. 
Each with his arms, which as his household gods 
Make his hearth Freedom's altar ! 

All is ready. 
Saving the most important part of ail, 
The appointment, time and place, and naming wisely 
A general leader of the several bands. 

The door suddenly opens, and hans clef, an artificer, 
rushes in. 
Hans. If you have tears within your eyes, weep 
them ; 

If you have human hearts, let them drop blood 

Oh sirs, I 've seen the saddest, saddest sight ! 

Several voices. What hast thou seen ? Say quickly 
what thou mean'st! 
6 



Hans. They tore him from his house; his wife 
e'en now 
Upon her bed of death — his little children 
Filling the air with their most piteous voices ! 

Gast. Whom speak ye of? 

Hans. He had been here, even now. 

But that he staid to watch his dying wile ! 
They heard that he had arms — they searched her 

bed — 
They cast her on the floor, a dying woman ; 
And in the wretched straw whereon she lay 
They found his arms ! Oh sirs, they found his arms ! 

Gast. Pr'ythee whose arms ? 

Hans. I told ye, my poor brother's ! — 

I 'II tell ye more — they racked him on the wheel, 
And he a feeble man, a child in frame — 
He 's dead ! I saw him die, with mine own eyes! 

All. Betrayed he aught ? 

Hans. How dare ye ask me that ! 

Oh I could tear out every tongue that asks 
[f Wilhelm were a traitor! 

Henry. Poor, brave man ! 

Hans. Why sit ye here, looking like senseless 
stones ? 
Oh ! had ye seen that dying woman's face ; 
Had ye but heard those little children's wail ; 
Had ye but seen that steadfast patriot die — 
Ye would have sworn, by heaven, and earth, and hell, 
To be their good avengers — 

All. We do swear! 

Gast. Ye swear — by heaven, and earth, and hell, 
ye swear 
To bring down tenfold vengeance for the blood 
Of this brave man ; and for his children's tears; 
And for the groan of his poor dying wife — 
Ye swear ? 

All. We do'. 

Gast. So help ye gods and men. 

As ye do keep your oath ! 

All. Amen, amen ! 

Hans. You have not bound yourself! 

Gast. I will do more 

Than utter empty words! will give you him 
Who shall accomplish for you your revenge ! 

[He goes out, and returns leading in 
Philip of Maine. 
Know ye this man, my friends ? 

All. We know him well. 

We love him well ! 'T is the good heir of Maine I 

Gast. Ye know that they of right possess the land. 

Rol. The little children know't! — thus says the 
legend, 

" Gold and gain, sun and rain. 
Came with Maine ; and will again !" 

Gast. Ye know how they have suffered, like your- 
selves — 
Their deadliest foe is the cold tyrant Kronberg! 
Henry. Ay, they have suffered sore — and this good 

lord — 
Con. He saved my aged father from the gallows ! 
Henry. 'T was he, that in my quarrel drew his 
sword — 

CI 



52 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When I defied that infamous collector 
To cross my threshold — 't is a well known story ! 
Am. 'T was he that fed, and clothed, and kept in 

shelter — 
Phil. Peace ! peace ! I came not here to crave 
your thanks. 
This was but common service — I 'II do more, 
I will make one with you in your great cause ! 
Henry. God bless you ! you were ever the poor 

man's friend ! 
All. Success will then be sure ! God save you, sir. 
Phil. Bear friends and honest, I am one with you. 
Are ye poor? so am ] ! Are ye despised. 
And trampled on ? so have I been my life long ! 
Do you fare hard ? so have I fared from boyhood ! 
Are your hands hardened with your daily toil ? 
Look ye at mine ! are these a noble's hands, 
J'air as a woman's, decked with costly jewels. 
Each one of which would feed and clothe your house- 
holds ? 
No — I must till the earth, plough, work in mines, 
Do any servile labour to support me 
And my good aged father, and receive 
With humble thanks the pittance of my toil ; 
So are we fallen, through the proud oppressor 
That fattens on our blood ! Shall it be thus — 
Thus shall we toil, and groan ! 

No, no ! my friends. 
Thanks to brave men like you, we will be free ! 
We will assert our human dignity, — 
Our birtli-right as free men ! Thank you, my friends, 
That you have thus decreed ; for in my lone, 
And solitary home I made my vow — 
The downfall of the tyrant! yet to it 
There was no witness, save the heavens above. 
Thinking upon your wrongs, I wept alone ; 
Alone I made my prayer, when gracious Heaven, 
Compassionating its oppressed children, 
Brought, as by chance, this brave man in my way. 
Even when the cursed tyrant had oppressed me 
Beyond my soul's endurance. Why, do ye ask ? 
Because I was like you — like you, brave men, 
Because I was a poor man I Noble hearts. 
Will ye have me a brother ? 

All. We will, we will ! 

Gast. And my beloved sons, I, who have been 
To this good cause a fiither, and have chosen 
This young man for my son, name him your leader. 
Speak, do ye like the choice ? 
All. We do, we do ! 

Henry. Not for our oath's sake to abide thy choice 
Shall he be chose ! 'Tis we elect him leader ! 
AIL We do, we do ! 'T is we elect him leader ! 
Gast. My son, these men are brave, true men and 
brave, 
Be worthy of their choice ! Ye righteous hearts — 
Ye poor men who are crushed — ye jioble spirit.?. 
Hungering and thirsting after truth and justice. 
Look on this man ! He will be as a god, — 
Maintain your upright cause and crush the tyrant. 
Join hands, and lake an oath of fealty to him! 

Phil. Brethren, ye shall not take an oath to me 
Blindly, and without knowing what ye swear for! 



It is for the down-hurling of the tyrant ; 
For the upholding right — to give the poor 
The labour of his hands. — It is to open, 
And to dispense from coffers ye have fdled ; 
To feed the hungry and to clothe the naked — 
To make just law the guardian of the people; 
And give the people their just rights as men ! 
It is for this, that I will be your leader — 
Are ye content ] 

All. A thousand times content ! 

{They join hands. 

Gast. Ye swear, as the deputed agents of the cause. 
To serve both night and day this leal, good man, 
Philip of Mame, whom ye have chosen leader! 

All. So heaven support us as we keep the oath ! 



ACT II. — SCENE I. 

Several days afterwards — a small apartment in the 
Castle of Maine ; the Lord of Maine, with the Bible 
before him. 

And all these things he suffered for our sakes — 

The man without a sin, for sinners' sakes! 

Reviled on, and he answered not again; 

Smitten, and he smote not, though had he willed it, 

Myriads of angels would have ta'en his part ! 

A man of sorrows, and with grief acquainted, 

Yet patient as the lamb before its shearers ; — 

And this the Son of God ! higher than all power, 

Glory, or domination of the earth! 

More royal than a king — than saints more holy, 

Though born among the lowly of the world — 

The son of a poor carpenter ; the friend 

Of humble fishermen, and simple women ! — 

Wiiat matters it where our poor lives wear out ; 

Whetlier in palaces enrobed in purple. 

Or lying down in huts on wretched straw, 

With the ashamed outcasts of the earth ? 

What matters it in the great day of count? 

Saving that in the balance of the oppressed. 

Then will be made a reckoning for his wrongs. 

I'.nough, I will not murmur — I will leave 

My righteous cause in the great Judge's hands! 

Enter iiildebrand. 
Bringest thou any tidings of my son ? 

Hild. My lord, ns I was standing near the ford. 
One mufTled in his cloak passed by me twice, 
Looking into my face as if to question 
My countenance : " Good friend," said I, 
•' What dost thou need of me ?" " Art Hildebrand ?" 
He asked. " And if I were, what then ?" said I. 
"I 've tidings for thy master," he rejoined. 
And forthwith drew this writing from his breast. 
And bade me give it you. 
Lord of M. Thanks, my good servant. 

[Hildebrand goes out. 
Lord of M. [rearf s.] " Have not a fear for me, I 
shall be heard of 
Anon, in otherwise than heretofore !" 
Thank God, he 's Iree ! It is not as I feared, 
62 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



53 



That he had fallen into cruel hands — 
My son is safe ! Now welcome evil fortune, 
Since it will crush me singly ! 

Enter hildeerand with an old sword drawn. 

Hild. Oh my master, 

A dozen horsemen now are at the gate ; 
They bear the cognizance of Kronberg's house. 
Lord of M. Admit them ; I am ready ! 
Hild. No, my master, 

They shall not take you thus ! The gates are barred. 
And they shall beat them down to gain admittance ; 
And they shall pass my body to win yours! 

[He fastens the door and windows, and 
barricades them with furniture. 
Lord of M. These are but poor defences ! 
Hild. I will prove them : 

VVhate'er is yours shall do good service for you ! 
Lord of M. But spare thyself, good Hildebrand ! 
Hild. My lord. 

Have I been in your service seventy years ; 
Eaten of your bread, and drunken of your cup ; 
Been cherished on your hearth ; been called your 

friend. 
But to desert you in the neediest time ? 

[A loud battering is heard at the gates. 
Lord of M. Nay then, I '11 do my best. 

[He arms himself. 
Hild. Oh ! would, my lord, 

I had a young man's vigour in my arm ; 
Would I were such as when by Sarni's stream 
I stood upon the eve of Childermas, 
And saved a drowning man ! 

Lord of M. The lord of Kronberg ! 

Ah, Hildebrand ! he has forgot that service. 

Hild. My lord, he soon forgot it! Scarce a month 
After that night, I crossed him in the chase. 
And, 'cause I could not answer to his question 
Of " which way went the boar ?" his savage hound 
Was set to tear my flesh ! In vain I cried, 
" I am poor Hildebrand, who saved your life!" 
He passed me with a curse! Oh for the strength 
I wasted on the eve of Childermas ! 

Lord of M. The poor man hath his evil in this life. 
His reckoning in the next ! 

[The gates give way with a loud crash. 
Hild. Curse that old wood ! 

Now, my dear master, back, this is my place ! 

[He stations himself at the door ; loud voices 
and heavy footsteps are heard without, 
which then pass off in the distance. 
Hild. They've lost the scent! Oh, my most ex- 
cellent master. 
If man's good deeds have any worth with heaven, 
Then should these sacred walls be kept from ruin — 
Would that our Lutheran faith, like theirs of Rome, 
Gave us kind saints to lake our house's quarrel ! 
Lord of M. Peace, peace, good friend, I hear 

approaching voices. 
\st Voice, [outside.] Here hides the ancient fox : 

come, now unearth him ! 
2iid Voice. This is the only habitable comer ! 



1st Voice. Give 's here the straw and matches, by 
my troth 
We '11 serve them as the hornet, burn them out! 
Hild. The dogs ! they '11 burn us out ! 
Lord ofM. Hist, Hildebrand ! 

Hild. Let's issue forth, my lord, and do our best! 
Lord of M. Let us go forth ; ours is a righteous 
cause ! 
But first, my aged servant, take a blessing 
From thine old master. 

Hild. [kneeling.] My gracious lord. 
May every power in heaven defend you through it ! 
[The fames burst into the chamber. Hilde- 
brand and the Lord of Maine rush out 
with drawn swords ; the men close upon 
them, and bear off the Lord of Maine, 
leaving Hildebrand wounded ammig the 
burning ruins. 



SCENE II. 

Night — a rochy glen, at the entrance of a lonesome 
mining village — a crowd of men, women and children 
collected together — Philip of Maine among them, 
unnoticed — Mother Schwartz stands forward — 
meteors and northern lights are seen crossiiig the sky. 

Man. These signs are plain enough ! 

Mother S. I saw, myself. 

Two armies from the north and south o' the sky 
Come up like hissing dragons ; and the heavens 
The while were red as blood! 

Man. And bloody banners. 

And fiery swords and spears, like flickering hghtning. 
Are thicker set than stars ! 

Old Mail. Wherefore these signs ? 

I '11 tell ye — to arouse ye to repentance ! 
Banners, and swords, and shields, to teach that ye 
Are soldiers of a holy militant church ; 
Rivers of blood, to show the blood of Christ; 
Groanings and awl'.ii sighings, to recall 
The death on the cross ; and moans and hissings 
wild — 

Mother S. Peace, driveller, hold your peace ! 

2nrf Man. No, no ; these signs, 

These awful, fiery signs, have other meanings — 
Tokens of wrath, to show the end o' the world 
Is now at hand ! 

Philip of M. I see these diverse sights 
Of comets and wild meteors in the air ; 
And streaming fires, which from the northern pole 
Cast o'er the sky this wild horrific glare ; 
But what of these, my friends ? 

These things are tokens, 
Sent to the great and powerful of the earth 
To shake their souls ! High heaven is wroth with 
them! 

Mother S. Thou art a wise man ! I do read these 
things 
As thou. But hark! here comes the Innocent — 
The poor dumb innocent that now doth speak — 
Such wonders are abroad ! 

1st Man. He has work to do ! 

63 



54 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He is sent forth in these bad, awful times 
For some great meaning! 

Mother S. Nothing has been done, 

Fearful or good, which he has not foretold — 
There is a god or else a devil in him ! 

2n(l Man. Hist, hist ! he comes, and soon he will 
begin ! 
'T is thus he rocks his body to and fro, 
When the fit's on him. 

[The crowd gives voay, and the Innocent 
enters, tossing his arms wildly, and 
. speaJiinff. 
Look, they 're coming from the clouds ! 
Tliousands, thousands ; crowds on crowds ! 
Banners streaming ; bright swords flashing — 
Onward, onward dashing, crashing! 
Lo, they meet! The weak are strong! 
Right is mightier now than wrong — 
Drive the bloody ploughshare deep; 
Strike the sickle in and reap ! 
Weapons not of earth they wield — 
'T is a crimson harvest-field ! 
Warrior, to the fight away ! 
This is the appointed day ! 
Cowards, do ye quake with fear? 
Up, the man of might is here ! 
Where is he ? the man of might ? 
Give him — give him to my sight! 
I have seen him in my sleep — 
Heard him in the silence deep — 
Now I know by signs of fear 
That the man of might is here ! 
Hence ! ye hide him from my view — 

[He parts the crowd, and loofis round him. 
Where art thou, O warrior true ? 
Ha ! I see thee ! thou art he ! 
Get thee hence to victory. 

[He falls back insensible, at Philip's feet. 

Many voices. What wonder 's this ? 

Mother S. Thou art the man he aimed at. 

Others. Say, who art thou ? 

Philip. Philip of Maine, I am. 

All. Philip of Maine ! our leader, Philip of Maine! 

Mother S. Whom Heaven has sanctioned by this 
miracle! 

All. It has, it has! 

Mother S. Hurrah for Philip of Maine ! 

All. Hurrah for Philip of Maine ! 

Enter jan Schwartz and many forgemen, in great 
haste, 

Jan. S. How ! stand ye here, and do not see the 
burning ? 

Many voices. Where, where ? 

Jan. S. In the east — behold ye not the light 

Crimson as blood? 'Tis the old house of Maine ! 
That is a-burning! 

Philip. What, the Castle of Maine ! 

Jan. S. Ay, and the ancient lord is carried off 
To Kronberg's dungeons ; and a price is set 
On his son's head — they .say that Kronberg fears him ! 
Lord, what a burning '1 is I the old dry timber 
Blazes like touchwood ! 



Philip. Carried to the dungeons ! 

Jan. S. And the grand cedar floors smell like 
frankincense — 
I '11 warrant them they cost a world o' money ! 
Philip. This shall but kindle fiercer, bloodier ven- 
geance ! 
Jan. S. And poor old Hildebrand has been dug 
out! 
He fought for his master, and was sorely wounded ; 
The burning walls fell on him — he was dead — 
Mangled, and black with blood and masking smoke. 
Philip. There shall be a reckoning for that old 
man's life ! 

Enter conrad, and other miners. 

See you that bloody beacon in the east ? 

Conrad. I do ! It is a beacon that will rouse 
Thousands of sleeping hearts, which, but for that 
Would have slept on ! The forest is aroused ; 
The cry is "Vengeance, and the Lord of Maine !" 

Mother S. And there has blood been shed — I 
know there has ! > 

I can smell blood, even as the raven can ! 

Conrad. In the black glen we have left seven bo- 
dies — 
Bloodhounds were they, upon our leader's scent ; 
Making sure count of Kronberg's thousand pieces ! 

Philip. Thanks for this trusty service, gallant 
friends ! 

Many voices. We owe you more ! 

Mother S. [aside.] I love the smell of blood ! 

Philip. Now, friends, unto your homes ! An hour 
will come 
When I shall need your bravest energies — 
Of that you shall have warning ; and till then, 
Farewell ! 

Many voices. Nay, we will with you, even now ; 
Will be your guard ! 

Others. And we will to the burning. 

[They all disperse. 



SCENE III. 

Some evenings afterwards — three men sitting round a 
fire in a cave, opening upon broken ground. 

Ist Man. It is a general out-break. No faint im- 
pulse, 
Threatening one moment, and next moment quelled ; 
Where'er ye go, people are under arms. 
2d Man. As I, this morn, stood on the wooded 
heights, 
O'erlooking the wild rocky pass of Forges, 
Three thousand peasants, armed in rustic fashion. 
Shouldering their scythes, their reaping hooks, and 

forks, 
Passed onward in firm file, like veteran soldiers ! 
That will bo done anon, will find no healing. 
Save in the tyrant's blood. 

1st Man. The forest mines 

Have sent their thousands forth ; in dens and caves 
They wait the appointed signal. 
3d Man. Kronberg sleeps, 

64 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



55 



The while Destruction gathers up itself, 

To crush him with its concentrated force. 

But Heaven confounds whom it forebodes to ruin I — 

Philip and Gaston 'neath its castle gates, 

Within the very hearing of the soldiers 

That man the walls, call on them to arise, 

To crush the heedless tyrant, and be free ! 

2d Man. Gaston I do not like. These strange 
adventurei-s 
Start up in troublous times, as crawling things 
Spring forth from falling ruins into day. 
Philip is ours — we know him root and branch ; 
And when his house had power, the limes were better; 
An it please heaven to give them head again, 
I'll help him heart and hand. 

1st Man. lie has all hearts, — 

And hands will go with hearts — have gone already ! 
It was but three morns since I saw him stand 
In the full market-place, and raise his voice, 
Like the tremendous angel that foretold 
The end of time ! 

2d Man. His voice is like a trumpet ! 

Never heard I so rich, so full a voice — 
I've seen men moved when but its tones were heard. 

1st Man. Thus was it then! — They that were 
cold at first. 
Or fixedly determined 'gainst his purpose. 
Kindled to hear his glowing exhortation. 
Thousands on thousands gatliered round about, 
Wedged close, like a thick swarm of summer bees ; 
Till tens of thousands seemed to occupy 
A space as many hundreds might have filled ; 
And then, even like unto a living body 
Swayed by the great pulsations of one heart. 
They moved together in their strong excitements 
Of joy or rage, as move the heavy waves 
Of a deep, rolling sea ! 

2d Man. He will be great ! — 

And were he sundered from that foreign patriot. 
As all good men desire, might bless the state 
By his ascendance o"er the tyrant's fall. 

1st Man. Trust me, a mighty engine is at work. 
To undermine rock-rooted tyranny, — 
And I bless God that we shall be free-men. 
As did each tongue of those assembled thousands, 
Until the morning-heavens gave back the shout — 
And yet each man returned unto his home 
Without impediment! 

2d Man. They might not now. 

For now he is awake ; and terrible 
Has his awakening been ! The bloody rack 
Doth every hour its work ; and armed bands 
Scour through the silenced streets, or trample down 
Whoever dare oppose them — men or women, 
Or little helpless children — and make search 
In the house of each suspected citizen. 

1st Man. Poor impotence of power! — where one 
is with him, 
A thousand are against him ! 

A wild croivd of people come up. 



Isl Man. What 's this about ? 
Man of the crowd. Philip has set us free ! 

The damned collector stripped us, dead and living : 
The body on the bier — the new-made bride — 
The bread from out our little children's hands — 
We were the wretchedest people 'neath the sun! 
Another Man. Philip stepped up, and seizing the 
collector. 
Dealt him a wound in 's body that cut short 
His pillaging! 
j Another Man. And ripping up his bags, 
\ Poured out the gold, and chucked it here and there 

Among our children. "Take it all," said he ; 
i And gold flew wide, like yellow leaves in autumn, 
I We'll have no more collectors! God save Philip! 
I Who is for him ? We '11 have no lord but Philip ! 

Enter forge.ma\, hurriedly. 

Forgeman. Have ye not heard the news o' th' 

victory ? 
2d Man. What victory ? 

Forgeman. Philip has got the day! 

A battle has been fought i' th' field of Forges; 
And Philip marches to encamp at Sarni, 
At the head of twenty thousand ! 
People. God save Philip! 

Forgeinan. Who's for the Conqueror let him fol- 
low me ! 

[He runs forward. ' 

People. We '11 follow — that we will ! 

M Man. Let 's take the oath 

To this brave leader in the cause of freedom ; — 
Let's to the camp at Sarni ! 

{They all follow. 



People. 
Hurrah for the Deliverer ! 
G* I 



God save Philip! 
Who's for Philip? 



SCENE IV. 

A street in the city. 

Enter a m.\n, crying papers. 

Man. Here is a full and true account of the won- 
derful and awful prophecy delivered by one who rose 
from the dead; in which is plainly foretold the strange 
and solemn events which are coming upon the earth; 
to which is added, the downfal of pride, and a clear 
explanation of the terrible and portentous signs and 
tokens in the sky, written by the learned Dr. Astreus : 
together with an account of sundry wonders and 
mysterious visitations which were witnessed in many 
places of this state. All which are explained with 
reference to things which are about coming to pass. 
"He that runneth may read." 

Many Voices. Give us one! Here 's money, give 
us one ! 

[The man dis<ribu(es his papers, and then 
goes forward. 

Another m.w rushes in. 
Off with ye, every one of you ! off, off, 
A troop is coming down ! 

They all disappear. 
C5 



56 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Soldiers ride through the street with swords drawn. 
After a short time another crowd enters, in the midst 
of wJiich is the innocent. Motheh Schwartz 
ajid Hans Clef stand forward. 

' Hans Clef. By Jove, there 'd be a hubbub, were 

he heard 
In yonder castle. 

Mother S. Ay, he shall be heard, — 

By every power of vengeance shall be heard! 
Now hist again ! 

Innocent. Man of pride, the hour is near, 
Thou shall bow thyself in fear ; 
Thou shall gnash thy teeth in rage ; 
Thou shalt curse thy drooping age — 
Thou shall fall, and thou shall die! 

Mother S. We know of whom he speaks ! 
Hans Clef. He is convulsed ! — 

Ah no, he speaks again I 

Innocent. Cometh night upon the noon ? 
Mighty, art thou fallen so soon ? 
Let me close mine eyes, I see 
Nought but coming misery ! 
Hotly rolls the crimson flood ! 
See ye not these streets run blood? — 
Death is stalking up and down 
Through this wailing, midnight town. 
Hark! what yells are in the air — 
See ye not the red fire's glare ? 
Midnight flames are bursting there — 
What comes next? despair! despair! 
Woe ! woe ! woe ! — The day is done ; 
Mighty, art thou fallen so soon ? 

[He sinks down insensible. 
1st Man. Most sorrowful ! most strange! 
Mother S. 'T is but a madman! 

2d Man. Dark sayings are these all ! 
Innocent, [starting vp.] They are here ! I feel 
their hands ! 
Off! I brook not gyves nor bands! 
Down the silent, echoing street, 
Hark! I hear their coming feet! 

[He gives a spring upward, and is seized 
by soldiers. 
Mother S. Unhand him, cut-throats ! 

[All the people struggle to rescue him ; he 
is wounded and burne off. 
Hans Clef. This is his blood ! By heaven it is 
his blood ! 

[He dips a handkerchief in it, which he 
fastens to his staff, and waves over 
his head. 
Mother S. Rally around the standard ! To the 
castle ! 
Follow, and let us rescue him ! 

[They all hurry off. 



ACT ni. — SCENE I. 

A dungeon in the Castle of Kronherg — the Lord of 
Maine sitting on straw. 

Enter Ida Kronberg, with fine bread, a flask of wine 
and a lamp. 



lard of M. What messenger of mercy may'st 
thou be. 
That daily visitest this dreary cell. 
And ministerest kind comfort to my need? 
Ida. [placing the viands before him.] Eat, drink, 

my lord, for you will need refreshment! 
Lord of M. I would believe thou wert some 
blessed saint. 
Did I not see thy weak and trembling frame, 
And hear thy voice so full of human sorrow ! 

Ida. Eat, drink, old man, waste not the time in 
words ! — 
Meantime I will compose my mind to speak 
That which requireth more than human strength. 
My lord, you have a son ! 
Lord of M. Heaven grant I have! yet not in 
bonds like me — 
My years are well nigh full — his years are few, 
Say not he is in bonds ! 

Ida. Your son is free — 

Three leagues from this he lieth with his array! 
Lord of M. His army — thou mislak'st ! Thou 
cansl not mean 
Philip of Maine ! 

Ida. The very same, I mean ! 

And now he lieth on the plain of Sarni 
With a confederate host, each hour increasing, 

Till tens of thousands are its smallest number. 

Two-thirds the army, and all mutinous spirits; 
Miners and arlizans, herdmen and serfs, 
Nay, tiie whole land, if rumour speaketh truly, 
Banded together i()r our house's ruin ! 
Lord of M. Ha ! is it so ? Scarce forty days have 
passed 
Since he was friendless and of no account ! 
But, gracious lady, on; thy words are wondrous. 

Ida. Like the fierce torrent of a mountain river, 
Svvoln by the night-thaw of a winter's snow, 
So has this mutinous faction suddenly 
Sprung into being, so it threatens death ! — 
Few are the burghei-s who have not thrown off 
Their old allegiance — all declare for I'hilip! 
The castle is blockaded. In our walls 
The few leal men who have maintained their oath 
Entered last night. To-morrow, it is rumoured, 
The enemy will make their great attack. 
Oh ! 't is a bloody oath that they have sworn — 
A fearful, bloody oath ! 
Lord (f M. They have great cause! 

Ida. I am a woman, and dare not attempt 
To judge these weighty matters. 
Lord of M. But proceed! 

Ida. Here is all preparation for defence. 
The walls are manned with veterans ; arms are fur- 
nished ; 
Lord Kronberg swears to part with life, ere right. 
'T will be a bloody contest! My poor heart 
Droops with prophetic feeling of great woe ! 
Lord of M. What would'st thou have of me ? 
Ida. Ah, I forget — 

How shall I tell thee that? — I am a traitor! 
Lord of M. A traitor! nay! 
Ida. I am Lord Kronberg's daughter ! 

6G 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



57 



Lord of M. Art thou Lord Kronberg's daughter ? 

Ida. Thou must hence — 

Must to thy son, and counsel him to temper 
Vengeance with mercy. When he knows thee safe, 
Perchance he may withdraw. And more than this, 
Flee for thy life! A gibbet is erected, 
Thou '11 see it in the moonlight, on the walls ; 
Th«re 't was my father's orders to convey thee, 
A terror to the foe, when day should break ; — 
And woman as I am, weak, timid woman, 
I dare oppose my judgment unto his! 
He shall not stain his name — a noble name, 
By basely taking life from such as thou — 
An old and unoffending nobleman! 
Hence to thy son ! and, friend, remember this, 
Thou hast had mercy, and be thou for us 
An angel of sweet mercy ! 

Lord of M- Gracious lady, 

With joy, I '11 do thy bidding with my son ! 

Ida. Now follow ! 

Lord of M. [aside.] No marvel 'tis he loved her! 
[She unbars the door, and they go out softly 
together. 



SCENE n. 

Ida's chamber — Ida arranging flowers. 

It was a gentle notion in old times. 

When books were few, and ladies could not read. 

To give to flowers sweet names — sweet names that 

told 
As much as a whole book of poetry. 
The heart's-ease ; — I could look lor half a day 
Upon this flower, and shape in fancy out 
Full twenty different tales of love and sorrow 
That gave this gentle name ! Would I could find in 't 
That sovereign's! balm of all I 

Enter bertha, vnth a banner in her hand. 

Bertha. My noble cousin. 

Mounts not thy blood to see this gallant standard ! 
Many a brave field has seen this crimson banner — 
A field of noble foes — then waved it well ! 
Alas ! that it must spread its silken breadth 
To yon base herd, 'gainst whom the raven's wing. 
Flapping above the blasted gibbet-tree. 
Had been a fitter banner! 

Ida. They are men — 

And my heart tells me, sorely injured men — 
Power is oppression ! 

Bertha. Creatures of the earth. 

Made to be trodden on ! Poor beasts of burden. 
Formed for submission; and they now rise up 
And ask their rights as men — faugh ! look at them. 
They are but brutes ! Down with ihem to the dust, 
And make them eat of it ! 

Ida. Nay, gentle cousin, 

Their cause ?tas just, heaven grant they shame it not ! 
Theirsoledemand was bread, bread for their children — 
Was 't more than rigiit ? — I tell thee, dearest Bertha, 
Power is a dangor.jus engine in man's hand. 



My noble father used it as a scourge. 

So will these men — yet while 1 shrink with dread, 

I own their cause was just! 

Bertha. Ida, for shame ! 

Thou would'st be lady-leader of this rabble — 
Thou would'st be wife to Philip ! — Shame on thee ! 
Thus should not speak Lord Kronberg's noble 

daughter — 
It is a monstrous sin to love that man! 

Ida. Thou dost misjudge me— I regard their cause 
Separate from him. 

Bertha. I 'd tear my wilful heart 

From out my breast, if it were such a traitor ! 

Ida. I am Lord Kronberg's daughter,- and our 
house 
Broolis not reproach. 

Enter LORD kronberg. 

Lord of K. What eager words are these ? 

Bertha. Uncle, behold this banner ! 'T is not heavy! 
Grant me to hold il on its post to-morrow, — 
I will not flinch — by your good name, I will not ! 

Lord of K. Nay, nay, my pretty niece, thou shall 
not risk 
Thy life before the weapons of those caitifis! — 
But now, my Ida, why art downcast thus 1 
Fear not, my child, to-morrow thou shall see 
The lord of Kronberg lord in his own land ! 

[A knock is heard at the door. 
Who knocks there ? 

Enter seneschaI.. 

Sene. He 's 'scaped, ray lord ! — 

He is not in the dungeon — he has 'scaped ! 
Lord of K. Escaped ! Then there are traitors in 
these walls ! 
Try on the rack the soldiers who were taken 
In act to fly unto the enemy ! 

Ida. My father, no ! — these men are innocent — 
'T was I who gave him freedom ! 

Lord of K. Peace, my daughter ! 

Thou 'rt raving ! Bertha, take her to her chamber. 
Ida. I am not raving — I am calm as thou ! — 
Father, 1 gave that old man liberty — 
I would not let thy noble name be stained 
With innocent blood ! 

Lord of K. If thou didst dare unlock 

That dungeon door, my curse light on thee, traitor ! 
Ida. Nay, curse me not, — dear father, curse me 

not ! 
Lord of K. Hence with her to the dungeon ! she's 

a traitor ! 
Sene. My good lord, no ! She is your child, my 

lord! 
Bertha [clasping her arms around her.] Off, off! 
you shall not lay your hands upon her. 

[She supports her into an inner room. 
Lord if K. Traitors of mine own blood ! Fetch 
out the prisoners, 
And hang them all — and that wild prating idiot ! 
But I '11 trust none of ye ! I 'II see it done ! 

[He goes out with the SeneschaL 
67 



58 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SCENE III. 

Seven days afterwards — the same apartment — Ida re- 
clines on a couch. 

The name of Ida Kronberg will go down 
As of a rebel traitor — as one leagued 
Against her father in the desperate strife 
Wherein, perchance, his life may be the forfeit. 
Oh Thou, who in thy righteous hand dost hold 
The lives of all thy creatures, guard, I pray, 
My father through the conflict ! Be his shield, 
And his sufficient help ! If life thou needcst, 
Take my poor life, a sacrifice for his — 
I would resign my breath into thy hands — 
My cause unto thy judgment — which is just! 

Enter bertha, and count f.\bian. 

Bertha. Ha! traitor, did he say? Believe me 
Count, 

The tumult of the hour hath mazed his brain 

Daughter he meant, his most beloved daughter ! 
Ida, Count Fabian brings us heavy news — 
The outer walls are taken — and the attack 
Hath now commenced upon the inner fortress ; 
But my most noble uncle, full of kmdness. 
Hath sent this brave young Count to be our guard ! 

Ida. He could not grant a trustier, braver friend ! 
Count, in the good greenwood thou 'st been our 

guard — 
Heaven knows if we shall take those sports again ! 

Fab. I murmured when I heard my good lord's 
orders, 

For he most strangely worded his command, 

Methought he spoke of gaoler — not defender ! 

Bertha. I told you, Count, my uncle's brain is 
mazed. 
He does not mean that she and I are traitors. 

Ida. [aside.] Oh, most unkind, to still believe me 
traitor — 
To shut his heart in such a time as this ! — 

But 'tis not meet Count Fabian see me weep 

Let me retire into the inner chamber ! 

Bertha. I will go with thee. 

[They go into the inner room. 

Fab. She 's a noble lady I 
Who would not draw his sword for such a one ? 
And 't is for her, they say, the war is waged — 
A single-handed man, I 'd face, myself, 
A hundred foes were she the victor's guerdon ! 
Now let me think — suppose he win the day. 
Suppose he force the castle, and take prisoner 
Her noble sire — which is impossible ! 
I 'd sooner die than she should be his prisoner ; — 
But for the supposition's sake — I 'd fly 
To every court in Europe, and demand 
Help for the noblest, fairest, best of ladies ; 

And Suabia's duke would be our earliest helper 

All know he has an eye upon this lordship : 
And is beside, a gallant, generous soldier! 

[A loud clamour of assault and defence is 
heard. 



But how now ! What is this ? Oh, but to stand 
Upon the bulwariu ! Curse these four strait walls ! 

[He mounts to the window. 
Ah ! what a stirring sight ! Yonder is Philip, 
Known by the bloody hand upon the banner ; 
His is a soldier's hearing — would to Heaven 
It was a gallant cause for which he strove ! 

Re-enter bertha. 

Bertha. Count Fabian, let me hear thee read the 
signs 
Of this unhappy morn ! 

Fab. I scarce can see 

Aught now; the force is drawn beneath the walls — 
Yet from the town a fresh attack is made. 

Bertha. 'T is as an earthquake's tumult ! 

Fab. An assault 

Made from the tower of the Cathedral church. 

Bertha. Are ihe good saints asleep, that this should 
be? 

Fab. Again it shakes the castle as 't would fall ! 
Oh that I were without, to take my part 
In this day's struggle ! 

[He looks out again. 

All is quiet here — 
The plain of Sarni and the distant camp, 
Without a living form, are all I see ; 
The little stream is running on in sunshine ; 
The breeze is stirring 'mong the chestnut trees 
That grow adown the slope ! How strange the con- 
trast 
Between the calm and beautiful repose 
Of nature and the unholy strife of man ! 

[The sounds of assault become yet louder 
with shouts of triumph intermixed. 
Bertha. Heavens ! what terrific power have hu- 
man voices 
In their ferocious triumph thus sent forth ! 

Fab. 'T is vain lo look. The strife is close within 
The very walls, and this small tower gives nought 
Save quiet fields, and the green, waving tree-tops! 
Bertha. Yet, yet again ! these sounds might wake 

the dead ! 
Fab. To those cooped up, the strife is more appal- 
ling 
Than in the open air, amid the contest. 

Soldier, [without.] Let 's forth. Sir Count, the a»- • 
sault comes nearer yet ! 
The inner walls are taken I 

Fab. Curse the orders ! 

Pardon me, lady, but my soul is chafed 
By this imprisonment ! 

Soldier. They need our help! 

Let us go forth, Sir Count ! 

Fab. Brave soldiers, no ! 

You do defend the noble Ida Kronberg ; 

[A more terrible explosion shakes the whole 
building ; a death-like silence ensues. 

Enter Ida. 
My father ! Is he safe ? 

Enter Count Nicholas. 



Count Nich. 



Hence ! hence with me ! 

08 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



59 



The foe hath got an entrance ! hence with me 
Unto the strong hold in the topmost tower ! 
Ida. Say, is my father safe ? 
Count Nick. He is, thanit God ! 

{to Fabian.] Take thou thy men, and on the turret 

stair 
Join Segbert ; he hath orders for the rest. 

[They all go out. 



SCENE IV. 

A small room in the upper tower. 

Enter the Lord of Kronberg, Count Nicholas 
and Segbert. 

Seg. My lord, the foe hath got entire possession ! 
Nicholas. By that old passage opening to the river 
They gained an entrance ; there the mine was sprung 
By which the breach was made. 

Lord of K. Curse on ye all ! 

Why left you it unguarded ? 

Seg. Good, my lord. 

You did declare a force of twenty men 
Sufficient for the post, if 't were attempted ; 
And they were all cut down unto a man ! 
Lord of K. It was your post, and you have it 
deserted ; 
And but that 't is an hour we may not spare 
From weightier business, you should die for 't, traitor ! 
Seg. [throwing down his sword.] For five and 
fifty years 1 've been your soldier, 
And never was dishonoured till this hour ! 

Nich. Nay, my good lord of Kronberg, 't is unjust, 
'Tis most unjust, my lord ! Segbert is true ! 
This is no time, indeed, my lord, it is not. 
Thus to affront a brave and loyal soldier ! 
Lord of K. Ye all of you are traitors ! 
Nich. My dear lord. 

Let not our latest hours be spent in strife ! 
Count Segbert, lake thy sword ! Let not the rabble 
Know of our strife — Count Segbert, take thy sword! 
Seg. [reluctantly taking it] I am dishonoured, I 
am called a traitor ! 
Shame on myself! — I am a veteran soldier 
■Seamed o'er with scars, and yet am called a traitor ! 
Nich. Thou art no traitor, Segbert ! 

My Lord Kronberg, 
What is your will we answer to the foe ? 
Lord of K. How many may we count ? 
Nich. Our bravest soldiers 

Lie dead within the breach — we are scant a hundred ! 
Lord of K. Then with this handful, I '11 defend 
the tower — 
'will see them die of famine, ere I yield it! 
Shame on ye, would ye counsel aught beside? 
Nich. I know no better counsel for the hour. 
Lord of K. I shall return no answer to the rebel. 
Now each unto his post; and leave no outlet 
This time unwatched — but I will forth myself, 
And keep you to your duties! 

[They all go out. 
I 



SCENE V. 

The stale-apartments of the Castle of Kronberg — a 
disorderly and drunken rabble, headed by Mother 
Schwartz, are despoiling them, and carrying off 
booty. 

Enter Philip, with a small company of soldiers who 
station themselves at the doors. 

Phil. Plunderers and spoilers, hence ! 

Mother S. Nay, we '11 not budge ! 

Many voices. We will not, we 'U have spoil as 

well as you ! 
Man. You might have lived and died with famish- 
ed rats 
Had we not helped you ; and we'll have our wages! 
Another. We shall go short, unless we help our- 
selves ! 
Phil. Base spoilers, ye shall not deface these halls, 
Down with your booty ! 

[They make a general attempt to carry off 
spoil ; the soldiers drive them back. 
Phil. Plunderers, lay it down — 

Ye shall not hence, save ye go empty-handed ! 
Many voices. We will not out then ! we v\ ill tarry 
here ! 
We will defend our own ! 

All. We will defend it! 

Man. Curse him ! he '11 say 't is his ! 
Phil. I swear 't is mine ! 

Ye are a herd of robbers, seeking outrage ! 
Down with your spoil, or, by my soul, these swords 
Shall be unsheathed on you ! 

Mother S. Ay, lord it, Philip! 

Trample upon us! Dare to draw a sword. 
And thou shalt find thine equals, that thou shalt ! 

Phil. I '11 strike thee down if thou defy me farther. 
Stand back — and hear me speak ! 

Mother S. We will not hear thee ! 

Thou'dst be a tyrant — be another Kronberg ! 

[They make a fresh attempt to carry off 
their spoil ; the soldiers oppose them ; 
a violent contest ensues, arid many are 
wounded. 
Mother S. [aside.] Let us appear to yield. There 
is a force 
Outside will take our part! We 'II have revenge! 
Man. Give us free egress, Philip, and we'll yield ! 
Phil, [aside.] Curse on them, with their everlasting 
Philip ! 
Soldiers, give place, and see that all go hence ; 
And yet go empty-handed ! 

[He withdraws into an inner room. 
Many voices. Hang him I we 'II have a reckoning 

with him yet ! 
Woman, [taking a body] My son, my son! he's 

dead ! 
Soldiers. Out with ye ! Out ! 

[The people are forced out, uttering threats 
and curses. 

Re-enter philip. 
One enemy is crushed, or well nigh crushed. 
Cooped in a little tower, and scarce a hundred — 

69 



60 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Meantime another rises, like the head 

Of the gigantic Hydra — the fierce people, 

Greedy of plunder, fickle and rapacious; 

'Tis the strong arm must crush them as they rise ; 

Must hurl them down to their subservient place, 

And keep them there ; as rude and rough materials. 

Unsightly and unworthy, form the basement 

Of kingly edifices — now I see 

Wherefore the great must keep the low subjected. 

Enter gaston. 

GasL Dost fold thine arms as thou might'st take 
thine ease ? 
Thou art not lord of this dominion yet ! 

Phil. Speak plain, what is thy meaning ? 

Gast. The rude concourse, 

Whom thou hast driven from the gates e'en now, 
Strengthened with a gigantic force, return. 
And claim access, mad with some fancied wrong. 
Thou art no longer " noble, gracious Philip ;" 
But " tyrant," " bloody and injurious tyrant!" 

Phil. I 'II cut them into mouthfuls for the dogs ! 

Gast. Thou madman ! These are they who gave 
thee power! 

Phil. Wouldst give the fair reward of seven days' 
strife 
To them for plunder? 

Gast. Give them for plunder those 

Who have adhered to Kronberg — not a few; 
And all rich merchants who as princes lived, — 
Fear not but they will fight like angry eagles 
For their nest-eggs ; thus wilt thou arm thy foes 
Against each other, and be rid of both — 
The merchants' names are here, their houses marked. 

Phil. A goodly list! and only pity 'tis 
To give from our own hands such noble spoil. 

Gast There are a thousand ways to get it back I 

Phil. An excellent friend! Thou hast untired 
resources ! 
Let's have it done. 

Gast. Listen, yet one word more. 

The mine that gave to us an entrance here, 
Hath shook the dungeons — they are insecure; 
A plot is formed among the prisoners. 
Many of whom are soldiers, to break forth. 
Surprise thee in the night — retake the castle, 
And give thee up to Kronberg ! 

Phil. Ha! is't so? 

Is danger then so nigh ? But hear me, friend — 
There is a gaoler stronger than stone walls — 
Canst thou not manage it ? 

Gast. Dost thou mean death ? 

Murder so many men ? 

Phil. Wilt swear 'tis true? 

Gast. Upon my life, 't is true ! 

Phil. Then I'll not dally! 

See thou to it — make sure of them ere midnight; 
But let it only be 'twixt thee and me! 
Meantime I 'li forth, and pacify these wolves. 

[He goes out. 

Gast. There is an easy conscience ! On my troth 
Not even myself could do the thing more coolly! 
This human nature is a curious problem — 



He who one day sheds tears with crying children, 

Bespeaks the next a wholesale butchery ; 

And yet, the bloody wretch, he knows the shame on t. 

" Let it be only betwixt thee and me !" 

Nay, nay, I '11 give the credulous whisper forth! 

[He goes out. 



ACT IV. — SCENE I. 

Midnight — hanqucling-room in the Castle of Kronberg 
— table spread — soldiers and attendants pass in and 
out, bearing wine and viajids. 

1st Sol. Full twenty different wines have all been 
broached — 
The rarest wines of France and Germany — 
It is a royal board I 

2d Sol. The spits are turning : 

There is a savoury smell throughout the house ! 

3d Sol. Think you they '11 scent the viands up 
aloft ? 

4th Sol. If they get that, it will be all they '11 get; 
They 'd do us reverence for the bones, I 'm thinking ! 

3d Sol. And then the prisoners in those darksome 
dungeons — 
I pity them, poor souls, for most are soldiers — 
Who 'II have the feeding of them ? 

2d Sol. Troth ! they '11 go 

One night without their suppers ! 

Attendant. They will taste 

Nor morning meal, nor evening any more — 
They 're dead ere this ! 

1st Sol. What, every prisoner — 

Soldiers and all ? 

Attend. Ay, every one of them ! 

But what of that ? The dungeon only knows 
What wrongs are done within its dreary walls! 

1st Sol. Ay, ay, these things may all be right and 
proper, 
But they do chill the blood within one's veins; — 
I love an enemy in open fight. 
And, easy-conscienced, could cut down a hundred; 
But 'tis not part of noble soldiership 
To stab i' the dark ; and put the subtle poison 
In meats and drinks ! Who gave the order for't? 

Attend. Philip — our good lord Philip — who but he? 

3d Sol. If but a hair of any soldier's head 
Have come to harm, by Ilim, who is in heaven, 
I will forswear the service of this Philip 
As a blood-thirsty tyrant, worse than Kronberg! 

Ath Sol. If it be so, I will return on th' morrow 
To my first soldier-oath ! 

2d Sol. And so will I ? 

Attend. Tush, tush ! you all are fools ! 

2d Attend, [runrting in.] All, all give place,— 
Here come the lords o' th' night ; 

Enter men, bearing dishes. 

Now to your boards I 
This is the topmost table, and my lord 
Hath ordered every man his belly full. 
This is above the .salt — all ye must lower, — 

70 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



61 



1 Ye have your trenchers elsewhere — but for viands 
Not one whit worse than these! 

[The soldiers go out, talJdng earnestly to- 
gether — the attendants busy themselves 
in arranging the table. 

Enter philip, gaston, and a great company. 

Phil. Be seated all — and let us try, my friends, 
The cheer of this good night ! 

Ho! give us wine — 
Fill every golden goblet to the brim, 
' And drink, my friends ! 

Gast. God save Duke Philip ! 

Enter officer hastily. 

I am much grieved to trouble the great joy 

Of such an hour — but mine 's a pressing errand. 

Phil. Speak to the purpose, can'st not ? 

Officer. My good lord. 

The burghers clamour at the gates for help 
Against those lawless thousands that despoil. 
By indiscriminate plunder, every house ! 

Phil. Damnation on them ! Bid the burghers fight 
For their own hearths and homes ! 

Officer. I will, my lord ! 

Gast. [taking tip a cup.] Drink to the universal 
sentiment — 
Long life, and long success unto Duke Philip ! 

Enter the old lord of maine. 

Lord nf M. Silt'st thou, my son, thus banqueting 
at ease 
When blood is pouring like an undammed river ; 
And lawless rapine through the midnight city 
Rages like hell let loose ? For two long hours, 
Has burgher after burgher called on thee 
With piteous cries and groans ! 

Phil. Peace, peace, my lord, 

One is dispatched even now will see to it. 

Lord of M. It is thy cause, my son! Up, arm 
"thyself; 
All is one scene of tumult, blood, and frenzy — 
The burghers, for their wives and daughters, pray 
More than their wealth! Thy fortune will be lost 
If thou hold back ! Shame on this drunken riot. 
When all that 's dear to manhood calls thee out I 

Enter soldier. 

Soldier. My lord, the burghers bring their wives 
and daughters 
Here for protection. They demand your presence — 
The city is on fire in every quarter I 

Phil. Confusion seize them ! I shall not go forth 
And do their bidding, as they choose to dictate ! 
Lcn-d of M. Then I will buckle harness on, and 
forth ! — 
What gentlemen will up, and come with me ? 

Many officers. We will to horse with you, and 

quell this tumult! 
Gast. [a.'iide.] If that old man go forth, he ruins 
all! 
Stay, brave old sir, we will not tax your arm 
Against these scurvy ruflians ! I myself 



Will be lieutenant-general on this night — 
Sit every gentleman, I '11 do 't myself. 
Lord of M. This is more grace than I had looked 
for from thee ; 
Thou art not often ready for good deeds ! 

Phil. Sit every one ; 'tis but a petty tumult. 
Which he will quell with half a score of soldiers! 
[They seat themselves. 
Gast. [aside.] Now this is right ! I '11 out, and 
set the city 
In such a bloody tumult as shall make 
This time be chronicled " the night of terror!" 

[He goes out. 



SCENE n. 

A small room of the upper tower — the Lord of Kron- 
berg alone. 

Lord of K. When great misfortune threats a 
noble house, 
'Tis a great sacrifice that must be made 
For ils retrieve — and 't is the part of greatness 
Misfortune to defy by nobly yielding ! 
Should I deny nobility to Philip, 
It were a lie — the blood that warms his veins 
Flows from a regal source. There are who say 
This land by right is his — I yield not that — 
But as my daughter's dower, I may confer 
Revei-sion of its rule on whoso weds her. 
Suppose it Philip ; I get added power, — 
Dominion o'er the factious multitude 
Estranged from me, but firm allies of his. — 
It may be that my daughter may object 
To this rough v\-ooing — but a truce to that ; 
I can enforce obedience ! — and in sooth 
Philip would not displease a woman's eye. 
But here she comes — though little like a bride. 

Enter ida. 
My daughter, banish these dejected looks ! 

Ida. Welcome misfortune, if it give me back 
Thy love, my dearest father ! 

Lord of K. Some harsh words 

I spoke to thee at parting, I remember — 
Forgive thy father, Ida; he was wroth. 
More with the woe that pressed him, than with thee ! 

Ida. l^ay, ask not my forgiveness ! 

Lord of K. Thou, dear child, 

Sweet image of thy mother, the most true. 
The palientest, the fairest of all women — 
Thou art my only hope ! 

Ida. Hope, father ! Hast thou hope ? 

Lord of K. Yes, Ida ; hope in thee, who can'st 
retrieve 
The fiirtunes of our house, and give again 
Power to my hand, and peace unto the state ! 

Ida. I do thus much, who am a feeble woman ! 

Lord of K. Thou dost not know, thou little 
trembling fool. 
That this land is in anarchy for thee — 
That 't is for thee so many brave men sleep 
In the cold arms of death ! 

71 



62 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ida. My father, no ! — 

'T is insolent ambition and revenge 
Have poured out blood like water ! 

Lord of K. Pshaw, pshaw, girl ! 

What know'st thou of these things ? But from the 

time 
Of the old town of Troy, unto this hour, 
Women upset the world, ha ! ha ! 

Ida. My father, 

Jest not ! What is the tenor of thy words ? 
Lord of K. Philip of Maine did ask thy hand in 
marriage, 
Which I refused ; thence rose this civil contest. 
Then was he poor, brought up in sordid thrift. 
Whom it had been disgrace for Ida Kronberg 
To have been wife unto. Now he has power, — 
And woe is me, that it should even be so! 
Has given his name a terrible ascendance ; 
And we must crouch beneath him, live his slaves, 
Be trampled on ; unless, like those who make 
Events their servitors — true wisdom's rule. 
We take him by his craft — yielded but to keep 
The power which but in seeming we resign. 
Thy hand, my child, will heal this civil broil, 
Will give again dominion to thy father — 
What says my Ida ? lie of Maine is noble ; 
Is brave ; hath power; is a mean man no longer! 
Ida. When Philip sought my hand, he was as 
noble, — 
Nobler than now ! Ilis name had not a stain ! 
Lord of K- A sordid, penniless lord, without 
respect; 
Scarce raised above the vassals of the soil ! 

Ida. That humble, penniless lord, I would have 
wedded, 
Because he then was worthy of my love. 
Lord of K- Hear I aright ! 

Ida. Thou hear'st aright, my father, — 

Ah be not wroth, but hear me calmly on. 
Philip of Maine is a dishonoured man ! 
Thou wouldst not have me wed with such a one — 
My father, thou wouldst not ! 

Lord of K. Thou wouldst have wedded 

The son of a fallen house brought up in thrift — 
Poor as a hind, but not so serviceable — 
One that was as a proverb and a jest — 
A needy lord, that in a threadbare jerkin 
Came as a wooer ! And now that he has gained 
Dominion and a name, why, in good sooth, 
Thou wilt not condescend to such a one ! 
Ida. Because he hath laid waste this wretched 
land ; 
Hath shown himself a fierce, revengeful man. 
And is thy deadly, cruel enemy ! 
Lord of K. I would retain my power by winning 

him. 
Ida. Is it to such a man thou'dst wed thy daughter? 
Lord of K. Unsay what thou hast said — that 
thou 'dst have wedded 
Philip of Maine when he was low and needy I 

Ida. Then was he true and gentle — a brave man — 
A loyal man, my father! 
Lord of K. Could I think it, 



I 'd curse thee, Ida, with my bitterest curse. 
Thou loved this man ! By heaven, if it be so — 
Say, didst thou love him ? 

Ma. Father, curse me not ! 

Enough of woe has been ; nay, do not curse. 
Lest God should register the sin in heaven ! 

Lord of K. Didst love this man ? 

Ida. The time is past — 

The time is gone for ever when I loved him ! 

Lord of K. Oh heaven and earth ! 

Ida. My gracious father, hear. 

I loved him with a first, true maiden's love — 
I loved him when a little child, my father — 
But as a sacrifice to holy duty 
I cast him forth from my sincerest heart 
As an unworthy man — thine enemy ; 
The spoiler of thy people ! 

Lord of K. Thou hast loved him. 

And thou shalt wed him! — Thou, against my will, 
Hast loved, and I will wed thee 'gainst thy will 
To him for punishment ! — By heaven I will ! 

Ida. Father, if I have ever warmed thy heart — 
If I have ever been delight unto thee — 
By whate'er love thou borest to my mother — 
And by the sacredness of her bequest 
Which gave me to thy care, her only child — 
Oh pity — save me from this cruel doom ! 

Lord of K. Out with thee! — thou art hateful to 
my sight ! — 
Thou lovedst that most beggarly, vile man ! 
And now that I am struggling, in his power, 
Thou wilt not lift a finger to my help! 

Ida. Oh that my life could save thee ! 

Lord of K. Then consent — 

'Tis a small thing thy father asks of thee — 
His power, dearer than his life's-blood, is in thy hands! 

Ida. Oh, not to wed him, father ! 

Lord of K. Then begone 

And never call me father — I '11 be lord 
Until thou hast another, and by God 
He shall teach thee submission ! 

[Ida retires, and he goes out by another 
door. 



SCENE iir. 

Ida's apartment 

Enter philip. 

And here she dwelt! Here passed her beautiful life! 

A tender, humanizing influence 

Breathes through the room! Ambition, hate, and 

vengeance. 
Have here no entrance: did I then believe 
That hate had conquered love, and hot ambition 
Driven from my heart all by-gone tenderness ? 
But to be near her — but to breathe the air 
Which she has breathed awakes all former love ; 
And worthier, now methinks, the blessed life 
Spent in all sweet and kindly charities. 
Though nameless, noiseless as an unseen rill. 
Than the great conqueror's years of bloody glory ! 

72 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



ea 



Enter gaston. 

Gasl. My noble lord, 't were pity your sweet 
dreams 
In this fair lady's chamber should be broken — 
But I am here upon the embassy • 

Allied to love, at least to matrimony! 

Phil. Ha! a capitulation of this sort? 

Gast. Your noble prisoner offers his fair daughter. 
On the condition that you should restore 
To him all power i' the state ; yet should receive 
A rich and noble dowry with his daughter ; 
And further, you should bear at his decease, 
When the land's sceptre unto you devolves, 
As title of the state, Kronberg and Maine. 

Phil. Well, that is fair enough ! 

Gast. Do you say thus — 

You that are lord already of this realm ! 
Is it for him to give as pleaselh him. 
And you most humbly to receive with thanks ? 
Thus will you yield your conquest and your birth- 
right ! 

Phil. I swore that he should offer me his daughter ! 

Gast. And then that you would wed her? No, 
not so ! 
Besides, this man is craftier than you are — 
Think you that he would keep his faith with you? 
I tell you no ! This is a trick of cunning. 
To get you in his power. He knows your love. 
And by this passion will he work your ruin. 

Phil. 'T is easier said than done ! 

Gast. And if you yield 

One atom of the power you have achieved, 
A faction in the state will rise against you. 
The burghers' hearts already are estranged ; 
Resentment grows against you hourly stronger — 
No longer now they speak below their breath ; — 
. Rule them, or they rule you ! — and traitorous Kron- 
berg 
Will give you up to them as a peace-offering. 
\aside^ And for my last night's pranks you would die 
by inches. 

Phil. Who counselled sending forth those raven- 
ing wolves 
Into the midnight city? 

Gasl. And who counselled 

The midnight murder of the prisoners ? 
For this the soldiers murmur. 

Phil. Give them gold — 

Mine is a ruined cause without the soldiers — 
It is a difficult course J have to steer: 
Contending currents strive against my bark 
Fate knows if I shall clear them ! 

Gasl. I '11 be pilot, 

And steer you through the storm — but hear me on ! 
The bodies of the citizens are piled 
In the great square, with such sad pomp of woe 
As the short time allows ; and oaths are ta'en 
Of vengeance upon you, save you will promise 
All the demands set forth with wordy wisdom 
In this long document, [aside.] But I '11 not show 't: 
Here they require " that felon-traitor, Gaston, 
To be brought to condign punishment for 's sins !" 
7 K 



Phil. Thou 'rt ever prating of these citizens — 
Methought there was an embassy of marriage ! 

Gast. So fickle are the people, they demand 
Kronberg again for ruler ! 

Phil. He shall die ! 

Gasl. And in the distant fields the lawless many 
Are listening to the long harangues of Roland, 
That mouthing, wordy fool, who never loses 
An opportunity for talk. There broods no good ! 

Phil. One might indeed believe my cause was 
doubtful. 
To hear you talk ! 

Gast. ■ Your's is a doubtful cause 

While Kronberg lives — he forms a plea for faction. 

Phil. Now speak you to the point — Kronberg 
shall die ! 

Gast. Gold is less precious than the passing mo- 
ments. 

Phil. Promise the citizens whate'er they ask. 

Gast. Ay, ay, I'll promise them! I' faith, you 
know 
Performance is a very different matter ! 

Phil. We shall not be so over-nice 'bout that! 
And let us with a show of seemly joy 
Accept Lord Kronberg's offer. Still our prisoner. 
He falls into the trap he lays for me. 

Gast. Poison or steel will make us sure of him ! 
And then you have his daughter in your power. 

Phil. But honour's strictest law shall be observed 
Toward that most noble lady ! As her husband 
I get a fairer title to the state 
With Kronberg's partisans ! 

Gast. Well, as you will — 

Marry or not, as likes you ! [aside.] She will undo 
This dainty statesman's trick! 

Phil. What are you mumbling o'er? Let us away, 
I '11 clasp my bride before the set of day ! 

[They go out together. 



SCENE IV. 
Apartment in the tower — Ida and Bertha. 

Berth. Oh do not yield unto this bloody man — 
Another day and succour will arrive — 
Fabian will leave no friend, no means untried — 
They call again for Kronberg in the city ; 
And Philip's reign, though told by so few hours, 
Is chronicled in blood. 

Ida. I hear their steps — 

Leave me alone, dear Bertha, for this trial ! 

Berth. Within thy call will I await thy summons. 

[She goes out. 

Ida. Now for the dreadful meeting! — How I 
tremble 
To meet the man who was so dear to me ! 

Enter philip, magnificently apparelled. 

Phil. Now do we meet without reproach or fear — 
Not as we parted, my own gentle Ida ! 

Ida. No, no, we do not meet as last we parted : 
Thou art not such as when we parted last — 
73 



64 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He Wfts a gracious man unstained with blood ; 
He wore not proud apparel, such as this; 
He was a poor, brave man ! a guiltless man. 
Who might have called on heaven to be his pledge — 
Thou art not such as he ! 

Phil. But more than he ! 

I am the man on whom thy sire bestows thee, 
He was rejected by him ! 

Ida. Woe is me, 

That I must still oppose my fiither's will I 
Though thou wert poor, clothed but in humble weeds ; 
Unsheltered from the pitiless winds of heaven ; 
Without a name, save what Ihy father won, 
Yet pure in soul, noble in principle, 
Gracious in deed, and merciful in heart, 
I would have ta'en thee, spite the world's reproach. 
But tricked out in these gorgeous robes of slate; 
A name of terror unto weeping thousands ; 
With the offence of blood upon thy soul ; 
If thou didst lay the world's crown at my feel 
I must reject thee, Philip! 

Phil. Fickle woman ! 

How art thou slave to every passing humour. 

Ida. Why should I tell of secret tears and prayers 
Poured out to Heaven for thee ? It is Heaven's will 
That I should see my dearest hopes depart ! 

Phil. It was for thee I strove — for thee I con- 
quered — 
Hast thou not wept the sorrows of the people ! 
Hast not deplored their wrongs, and proudly fashioned 
A lovely dream of glorious freedom out? 
And was it not thyself who bade me be 
Protector of the people ? 

Ida. God forgive me! 

For how hast thou fulfilled this glorious vision — 
How been protector of the ignorant people? 
Hast thou not shed their blood ? Outraged their 

homes — 
And led them up, like hungry, ravening wolves, 
To prey upon each other ? Philip, Philip, 
Thou hast forgot thy holy enterprise 
To feed thine own revenge ! 

Phil. Name not revenge, 

Lest thou too tempt me to it ! 

Ida. Heaven be our shield — 

It will prescribe thee bounds, even as it limits 
The raging of the sea! Oh how thou 'rt fallen, — 
The apostates of the morning fell not lower! 
Philip, I wept my ruined, lovely hopes 
With bitterer tears than ever woman shed : 
But I have done with tears ; they moved not heaven. 
That loveth mercy ! But I will conjure thee 
By that unkind ambition which preferred 
Revenge and power to love, to risk no further, — 
And let the blood which has been shed suffice ! 

Phil. Oh yes, thy words have power ! Sweet maid, 
relent ! 
Thy tender mercies, like kind angels' wings, 
Bring blessings with them ; where I shall have 

wounded. 
Thou shalt pour in sweet balm ! 

Ida. Alas! alas! 

Thou hast left many wounds for me to heal I 



No — henceforth we are widely separate — 
Not e'en the Eternal One undoeth the past, 
And that which hath been done hath sundered us! 

Phil. Then upon thee lie every coming sin ! 
If thou keep not thy plighted faith with me. 
Neither will I keep faith. Thy father dies ! 

Ida. Philip, thou wilt not — dar'st not kill my father ! 

Phil. How dare I not ? As yet I have not found 
The deed I dare not do ! 

Ida. Perfidious man I 

If this poor life can sate thy thirst of blood. 
Take it, but spare my father ! 

Phil. I have said it! 

Ida. I gave thy father life — O spare thou mine ! 
I risked my life to save thy fiither's, Philip! 

Phil. It was a woman's act — thus do not men ! 

Ida. Oh how does guilt put out each virtuous 
spark, 
Stifle each generous, noble sentiment ! 

Phil. Now for a little season, we will part — 
When next we meet, my hands shall yet be redder ! 

[He goes out. 

Ida. Hence, hence! What may be done, shall yet 
be done — 
We will not fiill without a dying struggle — 
Where's Bertha, Segbert, good Count Nicholas ? 

[She goes into the inner room. 



ACT v.— SCENE I. 

The ruins of a mill, surrounded with wood. 

Enter mother Schwartz, Hans Clef, Roland, 
and many others. 

Roland. It neither shall be this man, neither that 
That shall be tyrant o'er us ! What 's this Pliihp 
Better than Kronberg, if his arm 's as heavy ? 

Hans. We 've seen enough of him! 

Miither S. We '11 none of him ! 

Others. We '11 none of him! 

Roland. And this is he who swore 

To be a loving father to the people ; 
Clothes to (he naked ; bread unto the hungry ! 

Hans. We are mistaken! — yve are clean mistaken! 

Roland. No, no, he 's a deceiver ! 

Mother S. There 's that brewing" 

Which will bring down a tempest 'bout his ears ! 

Roland. Anon they will be here who from the city 
Will bring us tidings of the general temper. 

Hans. They are here ! 

Enter several Men. 

Roland. Tell out your tidings quickly. 

\st Man. [throwing down a heap of garments.] 
These caps and handkerchiefs from off the dead 
I snatched in eager haste — thus and thus only 
Come tidings of your dead ! 

[The people gather round, recognizing the 
garments with loud lamentations and' 
yells of indignation. 
Mother S. Ah, this was his ! Ah, this was ray 
poor son's ! 

74 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



65 



1st Man. 'T was from a mangled corpse I took 

that kerchief! 
Mother S. My son ! my son! But back, tears, to 
your source — 
I will shed blood, not tears I 

Roland. What say the burghers, 

Those ancient friends of his ? 

2d Man. The general feeling 

Is clean against him now. They swear he gave 
The town to pillage but to save his own ! 
Hans. And that he did ! We 're sure enough of 

that ! 
2d Man. Gaston, they say 's the very fiend himself— 
All saw his horrid doings yesternight — 
O' troth, there is some riddle 'bout that man ! 
Ha7is. And let whoever sins, 't is we are blamed 

for 't. 
Roland. Speak now of the condition of the city. 
2d Man. There is no house that is not filled with 
mourning — 
The richest citizens were killed i' th' tumult — 
One-third the city is a heap of ruins — 
And little children, wandering up and down. 
Go wailing for their parents — parents too 
And friends, and wives and husbands seek their dead, 
'Mong heaps of fallen houses — everywhere. 
Deep oaths are taken of revenge on Philip. 
Mother S. All have their oaths of blood against 

that man ! 
Man. The soldiers too are discontent, — 'tis said 
A horrid massacre i' th' dead o' th' night 
Has cut off every prisoner. 

Roland. There is hope! — 

What guard is stationed 'neath the castle rock ? 

3(i Man. The guard has been withdrawn. 

Roland. There 's an old pathway. 

Think ye we might not get an entrance there ? 

Thereby it was that Philip made his entrance ! 

Alh Man. I know it well ; yet 't will be dangerous. 
More inaccessible from tumbled crags 
And fallen masonry than heretofore. 
Mother S. Our wrongs can force through rocks of 

adamant. 
Roland. 'T will suit our purpose ; now let all dis- 
perse. 
And when eve comes we will again asembie. 

{They disperse severally. 



SCENE II. 

Evening — the gallery of the castle — Philip pacing 
about, in deep thought. 

On, on unto the topmost verge of power ; 
And, as 1 yet ascend, still more doth grow 
The grasping wish for more ; — the aspiring wish 
Higher and higher to rise. This petty lordship, 
Why not a sovereign dukedom ? Wherefore not 
The Duke of Maine as good as Duke of Suabia ? 

And Kronberg dead ; the path is right before me. 
Ambition and revenge shall have their way ! — 



But where is Gaston ? he, the ready tool 
Who does not start and cry " alack, my lord !" 
Ha ! here he comes ! 

Gast. No moment may be lost — 

Fabian and Segbert, and Count Nicholas 
Are hence. As firebrands in the standing corn 
Are they among the people ; and a rumour 
Has reached the town, that Suabia dravveth near 
With a strong army for the aid of Kronberg. 
Do quickly what thou dost, and rid thyself 
Of one foe ere another lakes the field ! 

Phil. Thou hast access unto the tower. Go thou, 
Poison or steel, use thou the surer means ! 

Gast. Nay, 't will be tenfold vengeance from thy 
hand. 

Phil, [feeling at his dagger.] 'T is sharp and true, 
but do thou mix a cup 
Of subtle poison. I would liefer that — 
And if he will not pledge me, why, there 's this! 

Gast. I '11 mix a cunning potion that will do. 

Enter the lord of Maine. 

My son ! my son! hast thou decreed his death ? 

Phil. I have. 

Lord of M. Nay, do not tell me so. 

Phil. I have. 

Lord of M. Didst thou not love his gentle, angel 
daughter ? 
Remember her, and do not harm his life. 

Gast. And be himself the victim ! 

Lord of M. It is thou 

That counsellest my son to these bad deeds ! 
Philip, she gave me life and liberty. 
And, but for her, thy father had been dead! 

Phil. Whose hate was 't doomed thee to the gal- 
lows-tree ? 
Hence ! hence ! thou dost not know, for urgently 
The hour calls for his blood ! 

Lord of M. I leave thee not. 

Till thou hast given his life unto my prayer. 

Gast. to Phil. Fortune is slipping through your 
hand, my lord. 
While you stand dallying thus. Away, old man! 

Phil. I'm ready, let 's begone. 

[They go out together. 

Lord cf M. Then, may the Avenger 

Take from thee thy ill-gotten power and station ! 
This is a place of blood and horrible outrage ; 
I will away ; men's hearts are turned to stone. 
Better it were to hide with desert-beasts. 
Where 't is a natural instinct to be cruel ! 

[He goes out 

After a short time re-enter philip. 
I did not quail, nor did my heart upbraid me. 
When thousands lay beneath my conquering step. 
And from the helmet-crown unto the heel 
I was dyed crimson ; why then faints my soul, 
Trembling and drooping 'neath a mountain's weight 
Of miserable remorse for one man's blood ? — 
Ne'er till this moment, when my debt is paid, 
When I have conquered my great enemy, 
Quailed I, or wished undone aught that was done I 
75 



66 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKa 



But hark ! What sounds are these — quick, coming 
steps, 
And hurried voices ? Am I grown a coward ? 

Enter gaston. 

Philip! Philip ! now is a time for action : 
Why dost thou stare as one that walks in dreams ? 
Phil. Whence come those hurried sounds ? Whoso 

are those steps ? 
Gasl. The disaffected thousands from the fields 
Are on the walls — within the very castle ! 
Phil. How got they an access ? 
Gast. Even as thou didst ; 

By the old rock-path. Hundreds more have entered — 
The portals have they fired ; and hark their cries — 
Vengeance and blood ! 

Phil. Hence ; draw the soldiers out. 

And man the walls. Strike every villain down 
That sets his foot within the castle gate. 

Gast. They fight with us for every inch of ground ; 
They are within the walls — the place is fired ; 
Accursed knaves, born for the gibbet-tree! 

Phil, [drawing his sword.] I '11 teach them what 
the cry of vengeance meaneth ! 

[He rushes out — Gaston follows him. 
A confused noise, and yelling cries are 
heard approaching, and a rabble force 
their way in, with torches in their 
hands. 
Man. Down with the billets ! Here I here ! Fire 
these hangings ! 
[ They hurl furniture into the middle of the 
gallery, tear down pictures and hang- 
ings, which they pile together and set 
i fire to. 

Enter mother Schwartz, with other women, covered 
with dust and blood. 

Mother S. Spare not for fire ! Now for a funeral 
pile. 
To celebrate, my son, thy memory ! 
They shall say, this was for the woman's son ! 
Out with ye, are ye plundering ? Give me blood ! 
He whom I seek is hence! Come, come with me ! 
[She snatches vp a firebrand and rushes 
out of the gallery ; the women follow 
her, bearing off booty. The gallery is 
filled with smoke and flames. 



SCENE HI. 
The small chamber in the tower — Ida and Bertha. 

Berth. Some new event is happening. May 't 
please heaven 
For our deliverance ! 

Ida. Those are the people's voices ; 

The yelling cries of the triumphant rabble. 
And, mercy ! those quick lights that through the 

darkness 
Shoot up to heaven are flames. The place is burning ! 
Berth, [trying to force the door.] 'T is barred I 'tis 
doubly barred ! There is no issue ! 



Here, here, we miserably shall die by fire ! 

Oh, Ida, vain thy prayer ! — they have no mercy — 

That old man will not move his cruel son 

To save thy father, and we here shall perish! 

Oh, can there be Omnipotence in heaven, 

Who sees these things, yet sends no angel down 

To smite and to deliver ! 

Ida. Nay, despair not ; 

I do believe some power will save us yet! 

Berth. Oh, do not mock me ! there 's no ruth in 
heaven. 
On earth there is no goodness! 

Ida. [listening at the door.] Some one comes ! 
Enter the lord of maink. 

Ida. Is good Lord Kronberg safe ? 

Berth. And what do mean 

These horrid sounds of tumult, and these flames? 

Lord of M. Come forth, my noble ladies ! 'T is 
an hour 
Of peril and alarm ! Will you confide 
In an old man ? I am no soldier, lady ; 
But, so God help me, I will guard you well ! 

Ida. I know you, and will trust in you! Oh 
guide us 
Unto Lord Kronberg's cell ! Where lies my father? 

Lord of M. Your noble father 's free. 

Ida. Your voice is sad, 

And yet your words are pleasant. Lead us to him! 

Lord of M. Quick ! follow me! 

[They wrap themselves in their cloaks and 
follow him. 



SCENE IV. 

Another part of the castle — citizens stand with Lord 
Kronberg's body on a bier. 
1st Citizen. Name not his faults. I knew him 
when a boy ; 
I was his favourite playmate ; in those years 
Together did we ride, and at the target 
Together shoot our arrows. I ne'er thought 
Then to have borne him in a plight like this ! 
2d Citizen. He was a hard task-master ! 
3d Citizen. But not harder 

Than such be ever. Even from Pharaoh downwards 
To this day's idol, Philip ! 

4th Citizen. I remember. 

It must be five and forty years agone, 

When his good mother 

3d Citizen. Ay, there was a lady, 

Fair as an angel, full of truth and kindness — 
The Lady Ida much resembles her. 

bth Citizen. Haste, haste ! the way is clear ! The 
contest thickens 
About the northern tower. O woful night — 
With fire and blood, wild shrieks and horrid curses, 
And crash of falling walls! But forward now ! 

[ They proceed. 

Enter the lord of Maine conducting m\and bertha. 

Lord of M. [hastily retreating.] Ah, not this way ! 

No, no ! a moment's pause. 

[Aside.] Yon is a sight that must not meet their eyes! 

76 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



67 



Citizens re-enter with the body. 
Ixt Citizen. It shall not be exposed unto dishonour ! 
Seek out a guard, and stand around the bier ! 
[Soldiers rush in] IIo ! soldiers, will ye not defend 
the dead ? 
Soldier. We fight for Philip of Maine, not for the 

dead ! 
Ida. The dead, said ye ? Is good Lord Kronberg 
dead ? 
Speak to me, some kind soul, for I 'm his daughter! 
Isl Soldier, [aside.] She doth unman me ! 
2d Soldier, [aside.] 'Tis a noble lady ! 

[Ida perceives the bier, and walks slowly 
towards it. 
Lies the dead here ? Soldiers and citizens. 
Lies here your lord and leader ? Oh, will no one 
Tell me if 't is not so ? 

\st Citizen. Alas ! 't is even so ! 

Ida. 'T was a sad voice that told me he was free ; 
The freedom of the grave — ah, woful freedom ! 

[She slowly uncovers the face of the dead, 
gazes upon it, and becomes deadly pale. 
Citizen. Dear, innocent soul ! 
Soldier. I will not draw a sword 

Against the Lady Ida, nor her cause ! 

Ida. I never looked upon the dead till now — 
And this is my dead father, who hath fallen 
By cruel perfidy ! — Not in the field 
He met his mortal foe, but in the cell 
Of the deep dungeon : a fierce, cruel foe ! 
Ye do not know, soldiers and citizens. 
The heartless man of blood whom ye have chosen ! 
The dead was mild and merciful, compared 
With him you call your master I Pious friends, 
Carry him hence ! — This is a den of crime; 
A house of cruelty, and fear, and blood ! 
Carry him hence into a holy place. 
So Heaven preserve you to your children's arms, 
And keep your sacred homes inviolate ! 

Soldiers. We will defend the dead, and Lady Ida ! 
Isl Citizen. Whither shall we support this honoured 

bier ? 
Ida. Would he had known your loyalty and 
goodness ! 
To the Cathedral — 't is a holy place ; 
And there will I retire : and let all loyal, 
All brave and noble hearts around me rally ; 
And, as the dead would have maintained the right, 
So God and all good men assisting me. 
We will retrieve this land's forlorn estate! 

[The bier is borne forward ; and Ida, 
overcome by her emotiatif, is supported 
out htf Bertha and the Lord of Maine, 
attended by crowds of citizens and 
soldiers. 



SCENE V. 

Fast midnight — outside the castle wall — the castle is 
burning — the roof has fallen in, and immense volumes 
of flame, wrapped round the towers, pierce through 
the blackness of the ascending smoke like fery Alps 

7* 



— hundreds of people are seen rushing to and fro ; 
some driven back by soldiers, others carrying off 
booty — wild shouts and yells of triumph are heard 
amid the roar of the flames and the crashing fall cf 
huge piles of buildings. 

Enter phiijp and gaston. 

Gast. 'Tis vain to struggle more! Fire is the 
victor. 

Phil. Now, draw the soldiers back, and leave the 
pile 
To those accursed plunderers. Ere the morn, 
'T will be the grave of hundreds, who now press 
Impatient through the burning atmosphere, 
To snatch a paltry booty ! 

Gast. As thou wilt — 

'T is a retrieveless game. Thy sun has set — 
The star of thy ascendancy has fallen ! 

Phil. Hast not intelligible words ! — Speak plain ! 

Gast. I'll speak it plain enough ! — Lord Kronberg 
heads 
The burghers even now ! 

Phil. Peace, liar! he is dead! 

Gast. But being dead, is honoured more than liv- 
ing— 
His daughter hath made speeches o'er the body ; 
Shed tears, and whined with pretty artifice. 
Till they have all unsaid their oaths to thee ! 

Phil. Thou that didst keep the body, hast betray- 
ed me! 

Gast. An old man has betrayed thee; even thy 
father — 
Better by far he had died upon the gibbet! 

Phil. Slanderer, for shame! 

Gast. Nay, hang me, if I spoke not 

Your secret thoughts. — But now the time is precious : 
Draw oflT the soldiers who yet true remain ; 
Get to the camp, upon the plain of Sarni, 
And hold thyself prepared, for on the morrow 
There will be work to do, than this more bloody — 
And as thou play'st this desperate game, depends 
Thy waning fortune. 

Phil. Suabia to the field 

Hath brought his fresh ten tliousand. 

Gast. You may thank 

The gentle Lady Ida and her Counts 
For this young gallant rival. You have seen him — 
A not unfitting husband for the lady ! 

Phil. Thou cockatrice— thou stabber of the wound- 
ed! 

Gast. Ha! ha! you have some pretty names by 
heart ! 
[aside.] I knew that this would gall him! 

Pliil. Unkind friend — 

I trusted unto thee my soul's best secrets ; 
I did believe thee not the worldly spirit 
That stabs the bleeding heart— then jeering asks 
" How is it with you now ?" — The cruellest blow 
Of my most cruel fortune has been this ! 

Gast. Nay, take 't not so to heart ! I would but 
urge ihee 
To try thy fortune against mighty odds. 
And conquer fate! 

77 



68 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



p}iil_ My soul is faint within me; 

Hence, let the morrow for itself provide ! 

[He goes. 
Gast. He beareth poisoned arrows in his heart ; 
Hatred and jealousy, and crushed ambition ! 
If these will not o'ercome the spirit of man, 
Then there 's a devil in him. 

[He goes. 



SCENE VI. 

The following evening— the interior of the Cathedral 
—the body of Lord Kronherg laid in stale before the 
altar— Ida, in deep mourning, sits upon the steps be- 
side it, and Bertha and other ladies stand about her 
— the Lord of Maine tvrapped in his cloak, leans 
against a monument apart from the rest — the doors 
are guarded by armed burghers. 

Enter count fabian in haste. 

Burgher. What is the news ? 

Pah_ An entire victory! 

A bloody field is fought — the day is ours — 
Philip has fled —the remnant of his army 
Have yielded to our friends— a moment more, 
And brave Count Nicholas will here arrive 
With message from the Duke to Lady Ida: 
Even now he comes. 

Enter cocnt Nicholas. 
Count Nich. May 't please the Lady Ida 
To hear a message from the field of fight ? 

[Ida rises. 
God has been good unto this troubled land, 
And given her victory o'er her enemies. 
Yet here the noble conqueror entereth not 
Save as your good ally, by your consent. 
His army, camped without the town remains — 
Grant him to lay his good sword at your feet! 
Ida. Brave Count, thou lov'dst my father. Let 
the dead 
Be honoured with all rites of sepulture, 
Before the land rejoice for victory. 
For me, a mighty debt is yet unpaid 
To grief and filial duty. To some house 
Of holy solitude I will retire 
A season ; and meantime confide to thee. 
And such good men as thou, the nation's rule. 
Not my own natural strength has borne me through 
The great events and awful of this time. 
Nature is weak, and now doth need reiwse : 
But let one general thanksgiving ascend 
To gracious Heaven, which has restored us peace, 
Though at a price so great. 

And from the duke 
I crave forgiveness, that I meet him not; 
The mournful duties of the time excuse me. 

[Count Nicholas goes out. 
Lord of M. They said my son had fled. I must 
away ! 
He is my son — the evil hour is dark; 
And misery and remorse are cruel foes! 
V'VTiere victory is, is not a place for me — 



I was not needed in his hour of pride, 
In sorrow and dismay I shall be lacked. 
O fare thee well ! Be merciful, dear lady : 
He loved thee once, and for thy sake he fell ! 
And if he fall into thy power, have mercy — 
Think not upon the dead, but on the time 
When he was worthy of thee ! 

Ida. Fare thee well — 

Go ! — and may heaven so gift thy words with grace 
As to restore him to its blessed peace ! — 
Farewell, thou kindest, noblest heart, farewell ! 

[The Lord of Maine kisses her hand, and, 
folding his face in his cloak, goes out. 



SCENE VII. 

Three days after the battle— the du.<<k of the evening — 
the interior of a cave in a dreary forest — Philip 
lying asleep ; the Lord of Maine bending over him. 

Lord of M. It is a blessed sleep ! It will restore 
him 
To his right mind ! Oh that we might abide 
In some deep wood, 'mong mountains far away ; 
Some wilderness, where loot of man ne'er trod ; 
Some desert island, in an unknown sea, 
Where he might wear his life in holy peace, 
And I be the true iriend that tended on him ! 
Phil, [opening his eyes.] Where am I ? and what 

gentle sounds are these ? 
Lord of M. Sleep yet, my son ! Thou know'st 
how I did watch 
O'er thee a child ; how sung to thee o' nights — 
Recall that lime, and sleep ! 

Phil. I cannot sleep! — 

My father, thou hast been a gracious sire, 
And I have owed thee duties manifold ; 
Thou hast been good and kind; yet one more 

kindness 
Do me this day — my arm is weak and faint. 
Strike thou my dagger in this wretched breast ! 
Lord of M. Wliat askest thou ? It is a sinner's 

thought ! 
Phil. Wilt see me dragged, a spectacle, a show ? 
Wilt hear them sing their ballads in my face ? 
Hark ! hark ! I hear their steps ! Give me the dagger ! 
Lord of M. Nay, 'tis no sound, but the low 

whispering wind ! 
Phil. I tell thee they are here ! Withstand me 
not — 
There is aslrengtli like madness in my arm — 
I will deliend myself! 

[He starts up and seizes a dagger. 

Enter gaston. 

Ha ! is it thou ! 
Gast. Feace be with thee ! nay, put thy dagger 
down ! 
I am thy friend — and bring a band of friends 
To reassure thy fortunes — Give 's thy hand ! 

Phil, [giving his hand.] I did believe thee bet- 
ter than thou soem'st ; 
My heart was slow to misconceive of thee.' 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



69 



Gast. Now shall thou know me truly as I am : 
Now will I bring thy truest friends unto thee ! 

[A band of soldiers rush ni and seize 
Philip. 
Phil. Ay now I know ihee, thou accursed Judas ! 
Gast. But I 've a better price than Judas had — 
A better price for a less worthy man ! 
Phil. My life's severest blow has been thy friend- 
ship ! 
Enter mother Schwartz, with a drawn dagger. 
Now will I have thy blood for my son's blood ! 
Soldier. Off woman, off! Alive he must be taken. 
Mother S. I '11 have his blood ! I will not break 
my oath ! 

[She suddenly slabs him. 

There 's that will send thee howling to my son ! 
Soldier. Thou 'st robbed us of our price ! take 
thy reward ! 

[He stabs her. 

Phil. My day is done ! Let me lie down and die ! 

Lord of M. Within my arms ! the father's arms, 

my son ! 

Cast up thy thoughts to heaven ! think not of man ! 

Soldier. He 's dead, he hears thee not ! Give us 

4 the body ! 

Father. Ye shall not part me from this precious 
clay — 
Where'er ye bear it, thither will I follow ! 



AcHZiB, throwing off his disguise, entered the city 
in his own character. It was a city of mourning, 
■which he had made so ; but his evil nature saw in 
human misery, material rather of mirth than com- 
passion. He would much rather have torn open the ; 
wounds of social life, than have seen them healing; 
but now was the calm after the storm, the reaction 
after excitement and emotion, and men coveted so 
much to be at rest, that not even Achzib could have 
agitated another tumult. He therefore adopted the 
spirit of the time, and railed against liberty as anar- 
chy, against renovators as anarchs. 

It was with malignant pleasure he saw how the 
holy cause of freedom was thrown liack, by the out- 
rages which ambition and the license of evil had 
committed in her name : he saw how virtuous men 
and honest patriots, who had joined Philip against 
despotism, but abandoned him in his bloody and am- 
bitious career, now came forth from their retirements, 
and rallying round the person of Ida, tmited heart 
and hand to re-establish the old order of things, dis- 
gusted with liberty, as with a lying priestess, and in 
despair of renovating social life or social policy: he 
saw the people sit down, willing to endure patiently 
whatever evil power might inflict upon them, pro- 
vided they were protected from rapine and blood, 
and the pretences of ambition to make them again 
free ; and satisfied that all here was as he could de- 
sire, he turned his steps to another scene of action. 

It was on an evening, bright and balmy as one in 
Paradise, when Achzib strolled into the place of pub- 



lic resort adjacent to a great city. On its smooth 
roads were seen the equipages of the grandees, and 
equestrian companies of gentlemen and ladies, who, 
governing their high-bred and mettlesome horses with 
graceful ease, reminded the spectator rather of the 
pages of Ariosto than of a scene in real life. On 
seats under the old leafy trees, or on the bright green 
turf, sat men, women, and children, in their holiday 
attire, all beautiful as separate groups, but more 
beautiful as forming one great whole of human en- 
joyment. 

There was a poet among them, but with feelings 
different to those of others ; — their's was an individ- 
ual happiness only, but his was a warm, broad phi- 
lanthropy, forgetting self, embracing all, loving all, 
and pouring out thanksgiving that man was enabled, 
both old and young, rich and poor, to go forth and re- 
joice. 

Achzib approached, and took the vacant seat be- 
side him. "Considering," said he, " the ill-condition 
of society, the tyranny of rulers, and the misery of 
the subordinate classes, there is no inconsiderable 
measure of human enjoyment even in a space nar- 
row as this." 

" Man's capacity for enjoyment," said the poet, 
" even under circumstances unfavourable to general 
happiness, is one of the most beautiful and beneficent 
ordinations of Providence. A balmy atmosphere and 
a fine sunset, common occurrences of nature as these 
are, contribute immensely to human felicity. Look 
around us — and of these hundreds, not one of whom 
but has his own peculiar cares and anxieties, disease 
or distress of mind, and yet what a universal senti- 
ment of happiness pervades all ! A sight like this 
awakens my spirit to a loftier worship and a more 
tender gratitude than ten homilies I" 

" But," replied Achzib, " the enjoyment of these 
hundreds consists in exhibiting themselves or their 
magnificence on so fine an evening. How would the 
bright sunset exhilarate the heart of yonder Countess, 
except it shone on her jewelled attire? It is solely 
the love of self-display that brings out these gay and 
happy people." 

"Shame on thee!" said the Poet, "thine is a cyni- 
cal spirit. What is the gaze of the many to that 
young mother and her boy ?" 

" I grant they are a pretty sight," said Achzib ; 
" the child is passingly fair, and the mother dotes on 
him." 

" How beautiful," exclaimed the Poet, " is the love 

which a mother bears to her child ! I mean not that 

yearning, trembling anxiety, with which she regards 

her grown-up offspring entering ujwn the cares and 

temptations of the worid ; but that hopeful, joyful, 

unselfish love, which a mother feels for her first-bom. 

She is young; the world has allurements for her, but 

a stronger impulse is on her heart; she is willing to 

spend and be spent, to watch and be weary ; and the 

clasping of his little arms round her neck, and the 

pure out-gushing love of his innocent spirit, are her 

sufficient reward !" 

" It is but the instinct of all animals," said Achzib. 

" Yes ; but ennobled by a sublimer principle," re- 

79 



70 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



plied the Poet. " The guardian angel of a child is a 
gentle Christian mother ; she protects not its out- 
ward life only, but informs and purifies, and exalts 
that nobler existence which elevates man above the 
brute." 

" r wonder," said Achzib, after a moment's pause, 
" whether an infidel mother ever took as much pains 
to instruct her child in unbelief as a Christian mother 
does in belief" 

" 'T is an unheard-of thing !" said the Poet. " A 
mother could not teach her little child to deny God ! 
'Tis a monstrous thought — an outrage to our nature 
but to conceive it." 

" In what way," inquired Achzib, " would the af- 
fection of a mother be made the mode of temptation ? 
for every virtue has its appropriate temptation, and 
divines teach that the highest virtue consists in the 
resistance of evil !" 

"Thine are strange speculations," said the Poet; 
" but the dearly beloved child is often a snare to a 
parent's heart ; it has been an idol between the soul 
and God, and He has sometimes mercifully taken the 
child to keep the parent from sin." 

" I have heard as much," said Achzib, and fell into 
a long silence. 



THE SORROW OF TERESA. 



PERSONS. 

OLAF. 

TERESA, HIS WIFE. 

PAOLO, THEIR CHILD. 

ACHZIB, AS A NORTHERN HUNTER. 

HULDA, AN OLD WOMAN. 



SCENE I. 

A little chapel in a gloomy northern forest — Teresa 
an her knees before the image of the Virgin. 

Tcr. Thou, that didst bear a pain that had no 
healing — 

An undivided misery. 
Which unto kindred heart knew no appealing, 

O, hear thou me ! 
I tell thee not mine own peculiar woe ; 

I tell thee not the want that makes me poor, 
For thou, dear Mother of God, all this dost know ! — 
But I beseech thy blessing, and thy aid ; 
Assure me, where my nature is afraid. 
And where I murmur, strengthen to endure! 

[She hows her head, kneeling in silence — as she 
prepares to leave the chapel, enter taolo, 
with a few snow-drops in his hand. 
Pool. Mother, in Italy I used to gather 
Sweet flowers ; the fragrant lily, like a cup 
Chiselled in marble, and the rich, red rose. 
And carry them, an offering to Our Lady ; 
Think'st thou she will accept such gifts as these, 



For they are not like flowers of Italy — 
But they are such, dear mother, as grow here ? 
Ter. My boy, she will accept them ! Gracious 
Virgin, 
She would receive a poorer gift than this; 
She would accept the will without the gift, 
For she doth know the heart ! There on the shrine 
Lay them, my boy, and pray if thou have need ; 
Fear not, for she is gracious, — so is God ! 

Pool, [laying the flowers at the feet of the Virgin.l 
I have no prayer, dear mother, save for thee, 
And that is in my heart. I cannot speak it. 
Thou didst weep so, when last I prayed for thee! 
Ter. [kissing him.] It is enough, my boy, the 
Holy Mother 
Knoweth what is within thy inmost heart! 

[She again bows herself before the Virgin, 
then taking the child's hand, goes out. 



SCENE II. 

Night — the same forest ; the pine trees are old and 
splintered, and covered ivith snow ; it is a scene of 
desolation — at a little distance a small house is seen 
through an opening of the wood. 

Enter achzib, as a northern hunter. 

Hun. And this is their abode ! A mighty change, 
From a proud palace on the Arno's side, 
To a poor cabin in a northern wild ! 
Let me retrace the history of this pair : — 
He was Count Spazzi — young and rich, and proud, 
Ambitious and determined. Fortune brought 
Unto his knowledge fair Teresa Cogni, 
The daughter of an exiled chief of Corinth ; 
Beautiful as her own land, and pure 
As her own cloudless heavens. It is a tale 
So long, so full of sorrow and of guile. 
Of heart-ache and remorseless tyranny. 
That now I may not stop to trace it out. 
But she was forced to marry that stern man. 
After her fiither's death had given her 
Into his power. — Enough, it was a marriage 
Where joy was not; but where the tyrant smiled 
Because his pride and will were gratified. 
Next followed lawless years of heedless crime ; 
To those, the desperate strife between us two. 
Wherein I made the vow which I have kept, 
How. it now matters not. I watched him fall. 
Impelled by my fierce hate, until at length 
I saw him banished from his native land. 
Meantime that gentle partner of his fall. 
Bore, with a patience which was not of earth, 
All evils of their cruel destiny. 
But she was now a mother — and for him. 
That docile boy, whose spirit was like hers, 
Ever-enduring and so full of kindness. 
What mother would not bear all misery 
And yet repine not, blessed in the love 
Of that confiding spirit ! Thus it was. 
And they three went forth, exiles from their land : 
One w iih the curse of his own crimes upon him ; 

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THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



71 



Two innocent as doves, and only cursed 

In that their lives and fortunes were bound up 

With that bad man's. 

He is a hunter now ; 
And his precarious living earns with toil 
And danger, amid natures like his own : 
And here I might have left him to live out 
The term of his existence, had I not 
Seen how the silent virtues of the wife, 
And the clear, innocent spirit of the boy, 
Have gained ascendance o'er him ; and besides, 
Sure as I am of Spazzi, 't is for her. 
My seventh victim, that I tread these wilds ; 
For will she not curse God, if from her sight 
Is ta'en that precious child, and hate her husband, 
By whom it shall appear the deed is done ? 
She will, she will — I know this mother's heart! 
And on the morrow, as a skilful hunter, 
I shall present myself before her husband, 
No more Count Spazzi, but the hunter Olaf 

[He goes farther into the forest. 



SCENE in. 

The following morning — the interior of the house in 
the forest — Teresa sitting near the fire — Paolo 
kneeling upon a footstool at her side. 

Paol. And now, dear mother, tell me that old tale, 
About the little boy who prayed that Jesus 
Might come and play with him. 

Ter. I will, my love. 

[She sings in a low recitative. 
* Among green, pleasant meadows. 

All in a grove so wild, 
Was set a marble image 
Of the Virgin and the Child. 

There oft, on summer evenings, 

A lonely boy would rove, 
To play beside the image 

That sanctified the grove. 

Oft sate his mother by him. 

Among the shadows dim. 
And told how the Lord Jesus 

Was once a child, like hira. 

" And now from highest heaven 
He doth look down each day. 

And sees whate'er thou doest. 
And hears what thou dost say !'* 

Thus spoke his tender mother: 

And on an evening bright. 
When the red, round sun descended 

'Mid clouds of crimson light. 

Again the boy was playing. 

And earnestly said he. 
" Oh beautiful child Jesus, 

Come down and play with me! 

* A free trauslation of one of Herder's beautiful legends. 
L 



"I will find thee flowers the fairest. 

And weave for thee a crown ; 
I will get thee ripe, red strawberries. 

If thou wilt but come down ! 
"Oh Holy, Holy Mother, 

Put him down from off thy knee ; 
For in these silent meadows 

There are none to play with me !" 
Thus spoke the boy so lonely. 

The while his mother heard. 
But on his prayer she pondered. 

And spoke to him no word. 

That self-same night she dreamed 

A lovely dream of joy ; 
She thought she saw young Jesus 

There, playing with the boy. 

" And for the fruits and flowers 
Which thou hast brought to me. 

Rich blessing shall be given 
A thousand-fold to thee ! 

" For in the fields of heaven 
Thou shah roam with me at will. 

And of bright fruits, celestial. 
Shall have, dear child, thy fill!" 

Thus tenderly and kindly 

The fair child Jesus spoke ; 
And full of careful musings. 

The anxious mother woke. 

And thus it was accomplished 

In a short month and a day. 
The lonely boy, so gentle. 

Upon his death-bed lay. 

And thus he spoke in dying: 

"Oh mother dear, I see 
That beautiful child Jesus 

A-coming down to me ! 

" And in his hand he beareth 
Bright flowers as white as snow. 

And red and juicy strawberries, — 
Dear mother, let me go?" 

He died — but that fond mother 

Her sorrow did restrain, 
For she knew he was with Jesus, 

And she asked him not again ! 

Paol. I wish that I had been that boy, dear 
mother ! 

Ter. How so, my Paolo, did not that boy die, 
And leave his mother childless ? 

Paol. Ah, alas, 

I had forgotten that! But, mother dear, 
Thou couldst not be so wretched, wanting me. 
As I, if thou wert not! It breaks my heart 
Only to think of it ; and I do pray. 
Morning and night, that I may never lose thee! 

Ter. My precious child, heaven is so very good, 
I do believe it will not sunder us 
Who are so dear, so needful to each other! 

Paol. Let us not speak of parting ! And, indee<], 
I will not be a hunter when a man ; 

81 



72 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I will not leave thee early in a morning, 
And keep away from thee for days and days ! 
I do not love the chase, it fHghtens me ; 
The horrid bark of wolves /ills me with dread. 
I dredm of them at night ! 

Ter. Thou shaft not, love ! 

And yet, what couldst tliou be, if not a hunter, 
In these wild regions, Paolo ! 

Paol. Oh no, mother, 

I will not be a hunter ! They are fierce. 
They have loud angry voices. Dearest mother, 
1 tremble when I hear my father speak ; 
I wish he was as kind, and spoke as sweetly 
As thou dost. 

Ter. Hush, my Paolo — say not thus — 

Thy father is a bold and skilful hunter, — 
A very skilful hunter. 

Paol. Yes, I know it; 

I've often heard it said. But tell me why 
Men are so stern ! If I am e'er a man, 
I will be kind and gentle; and the dogs 
Shall not start up whene'er they hear my step. 
And skulk away from the warm, pleasant hearth ! 
I will love all things, mother; I will make 
All things love me ! 

Ter. My dearest, gentle boy, 

I do believe thou wilt! 

Paol. Mother, hast heard 

My father goes unto the chase to-day. 
And that strange hunter with him ! 

Ter. Nay, my love, 

In this wild storm they will not go to hunt. 

Pa<A. I saw them even now. The sledge is ready, 
With the horse harnessed to 't ; and, mother dear, 
We shall have such a long and quiet day, — 
'Twill be so happy! And oh, wilt thou tell me 
About thy home at Corinth, and the time 
When from tha morning to the blessed eve 
Thou sangest to the music of thy lute ; 
Or wander'dst out with kind and merry friends ; 
Or tendedst thy sweet flowers; — and tell me too 
About the bright, blue, restless sea at Corinth — 
And sing me songs and hymns in thy Greek tongue, 
And hear how I can sing them after thee — 
Wilt thou, dear mother? 

Ter. I will indeed, my love! 

But hark ! thy birds are chirping for their meal. 
Go, feed them, my sweet boy. 

Paol. Yes, I will feed them. 

And then there will be nothing all the day 
To take me from thy side ! 

[He goes out. 

Ter. Thou dear, dear child! 

Thou happy, innocent spirit ! 'T is o'er-payment, 
A rich o'er-payment of my many woes. 
To see thee gather up such full enjoyment 
Within the narrowed limits of the good 
Which thy hard fortune gives thee ! And no more 
Let me account myself forlorn and stripped. 
Whilst I have thee, my boy ! 

But hark ! here comes 
My husband ! 



Enter olaf, mvffled in his hunting dress. 

Olof. Where 's the boy! I hunt to-day. 

Ter. Not in this storm, my husband ! 

Olaf. In this storm ! 

Where is the boy ? I heard him here, just now. 

Ter. Why, why the boy ? What dost thou want 
with him? 

Olaf. He shall go out with me on this day's hunt 

Ter. Oh no ! not so — he must not go to-day ! 

Olaf Why, 'tis a puny, feeble-hearted thing, 
Whom thou hast fondled with and fooled, till nought 
Of a boy's spirit is within his heart! 
But he shall go with me, and learn to dare 
The perils of the forest ! 

Ter. But this once — 

This once, my husband, spare him — and when next 
Thou goest to the hunt, he shall go with thee! 

Olaf. This day he shall go with me ! Thou 
wouldst teach 
The boy rebellion! He shall go with me ! 

Ter. Nay, say not so — he does not love the chase ! 

Olaf. 'Tis me he does not love — and for good 
reason, — 
Thou ever keep'st him sitting at thy side, 
A caded, dwindled thing that has no spirit ! 
Look at the other children of the ibrest ; 
They are brave, manly boys! 

Ter. Alas, my husband, 

Thou hast forgotten, 't is a tender flower 
Transplanted to a cold, ungenial clime. 

Olaf. Say not another word ! Thou hear'st my 
will ! 

Enter paolo ; he runs to his mother's side. 

Ter. Thy father wishes thee to hunt to-day. 

Paol. Oh, not to-day, dear mother ! 

Olaf. And why not? 

It ever is the cry, " Oh not to-day !" 
I pr'ythee what new fancy 's in thy head, 
That thou canst not go with me ? 

Paol. I besought 

My mother to sing me her Corinth songs ; 
To tell me of the groves and of the flowers, 
And of that happy home that was more fair 
Than even was ours, in pleasant Italy ; 
And she has promised that she will, my father. 

Olaf. Ha ! ha ! is 't so ? — 'T is even as I thought. 
I know wherefore these stories of the past! 
Mark me, Teresa, if thou school him thus, 
I '11 sunder ye ! — Thou need'st not clasp thy hands ; 
For on my life I '11 do it! 

Paol. [weeping.] Father, father. 

Part me not from my mother, and indeed 
I will go with you. 

Ter. [aside to Olaf] Pray thee, speak him kindly! 

Olaf. Come, I'll be thy companion! I will teach I 
thee 
To be a man; — dry up these childish tears! 

Ter. My sweet boy, do not weep ! Go out this day 
Thy mother prays it of thee, and bring back 
A little ermine, we will make it tame ; 
It shall be thine, my Paolo, and shall love thee. 
82 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



73 



Pool. I will go, dearest mother — nor will cry 
Though the gaunt, hungry wolves bark round about, 
[aside.] But, mother dear, will you sit by my side 
When we come back, and sing me fast asleep? 
I have such horrid dreams of wolves at night. 

Ter. I will, indeed I will, my dearest love! 

Olaf. Come, come, why all this fondling? We'll 
be back 
Long ere the night. 

Ter. Come, now I '11 put thee on 
Thy cloak, and that warm cap of ermine skin 
I made for thee last winter ! 

[They go out 

Olaf. How she sways him ! 

With a sweet word she guides him as she will! 
Would that the child loved me but half as well; 
Heaven help me ! but I am a rough, bad man, 
And have deserved neither her love nor his ! 
But now the sledge is ready. 

[He goes out. 



I SCENE IV. 

I 

, JVear sunset — a dreary, desolate region, surrounded 

I with ice-mountains — the Hunter drives a sledge ra- 
pidly forward, in the back part of which sit Olaf 
and Paolo. 

I Olaf. Where is this wild ? I know not where thou 
drivest! 
Hunter. Below our feet lies the eternal ice 
Of the great sea ! 

Olaf. Our prey abides not here ! 

I Hunt. We '11 find enough, anon ! 
I Olaf. Thou dost not know 

The track on which thou go'st. — Here only dwells 
!The gaunt and savage wolf! and hark — even now 
j I hear their bark ! 
I Paol. Oh, are there wolves a-nigh ? 

Hunt. Ay, they are nigh, look in that black abysm, 
II is a wild woirs den! 

Olaf. Thou braggart hunter, 

Is this thy wondrous skill ? Wheel round the sledge 
Before the horse is maddened with the cry ! 
There is no time to lose ! Pull in the beast ! 
Hunt. It will not do — the wolves are now upon 

us! 
Paol. Oh father, save me I — save me, dearest fa- 
ther! 
• Ohf. Let go my cloak — they shall not hurt thee, 
child ! 
{to /Ae iJun/er. ] Thou cursed man! — Dost see these 

savage beasts, 
And yet sit grinning there, as thou had'st done 
[ A piece of hunter-craft ! 
I Hunt. You carry arms — 

Cannot you fire upon them ? They will gorge 
jUpon each other, and be pacified! 

Olaf. ]f they taste blood, they will be more fero- 
cious — 
And thou knovv'st well, we have not ammunition 
Vox such a strife I yet will I fire on them, 
Their savage barking will bring others down. 

[He fires. 



Paol. Oh horrid ! how they tear each other's flesh. 
Olaf. Now hurry forward, for our only hope 
Lies in out-speeding them ! 
Paol. Let us go home ! 

Olaf. Again they are upon us — their gaunt jaws 
Dropping with blood, which they lick evermore ! 
Now for another slaughter ! 

Hunt. 'T is in vain, 

For right and left, yet other packs are coming ! 

Paol. Oh father, father, they will be upon us ! 
And I shall never see my mother more ! 
Hunt. Peace, brawling child ! 
Olaf. My poor, dear boy, be still. 

Paol. I will, I will, dear father ! 
Olaf. [to the Hunter."] Cursed murderer. 

His blood will be upon thy head ! 

Hunt. Indeed ! 

Who forced him from his mother 'gainst his will ? 
Olaf. Most strange, inhuman wretch I 
Hunt. Nay, use thy gun, 

'T will do thee better service than thy tongue ! 
Olaf. [aside.] Please heaven I live, I '11 pay thee 
lor this hunt. 
Wages thou didst not ask! 

[He puts his last charge into his piece. 
This is the last — 
When this is done, there is no other hope 
But in our flight! [He f res. 

Now heaven must be our helper ! 
On, on, spare not the thong ! 

[The horse in dashing forward, breaks 
from the sledge ; the wolves fall upon 
him instantly. 
Olaf. Now must we fly ! 

Hunt. There is a hut among these icy deserts 
Raised by some hunters. While they gorge them- 
selves 
We may escape. 
Paol. Take, take my hand, dear father ! 

Olaf. How cold it is, poor boy ! 

[ They turn among the ice-mountains, and 
soon are out of sight. 



SCENE V. 
A chaotic wilderness of icebergs. 

Enter the hunter, and olaf carrying paolo, who 
appears faint. 

Hunt. I hear their bark — we are not much a-head ! 

Olaf. How far is 't now unto the hunter's cabin ? 

Hunt. A half hour it would take us, could we run 
At our best speed — but cumbered with the child, 
What can we do ? 

Paol. Dear father, I will run — 

I will not cumber thee — I am strong now ! 

Olaf My poor dear boy, thou canst not! would 
to heaven 
Thou wert at home ! 

Paol. How kind thou art, dear father ! 

I will run on — I will not cumber thee! 

83 



74 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Hunt. The wolves are here ! Hark, hark ! their 
barking comes 
Upon the passing wind ! 
Paol. Oh, they are here ! 

Olaf. How can we 'scape from them ? I '11 sell 
my life 
Dearly for this child's sake ! 

Hunt. Throw them the child ! 

And while they gorge on him, we can escape. 
Olaf. Thou devil of hell ! 

Paol. Sweet father, do it not ! 

[The wolves siirrmind them ; and the Hunter 
snatching up Paolo throws him among 
them. 
Paol. Oh father, father, save me ! 
Olaf. My boy ! my boy ! 

Hunt. It is too late — they tear him limb from limb ! 
Now for escape ! Run, run, and we shall reach 
A place of safety ! [He darts forward. 

Olaf. God in heaven ! my boy — 

My gentle-hearted boy ! my murdered boy ! 

[He dashes among the wolves with his 
hunting hiife, and then springs for- 
ward after the Hurder. 



SCENE VI. 

Night — the interior of Olaf s house — Teresa alone — 
a bright fire burns on the hearth — refreshments are 
set out, and clothes hanging by the fire for Olaf and 
Paolo. 

Teresa. How late it is ! an hour beyond the mid- 
night ! 
And bitter cold it is ! The icy wind 
Even pierces through these walls! Poor little Paolo, 
How weary and half-frozen he will be : 
But he shall sit upon the bench beside me, 
And I will hold his hands, and lay his head 
Upon my knee; it is his dear indulgence — 
Poor child, and he shall have it all to-night I 

[She puts fresh logs on the fire. 
And this is the third time I have renewed 
The wasting fire! and when 1 piled it first, 
" My Paolo will be here," I said, " before 
These logs shall have burned through !" but, now 

alas, 
I know not what to say, saving the wonder 
That he comes not, and even this is grown 
A kind of vague despair, that seems to threaten 
He will not come at all ! Oh, if aught happen. 
Save good unto the child, like poor old Jacob, 
Then should I be bereaved ! 

Enter hulda, with a very dejected countenance ; she 
takes down Paolo's clothes, and folds them up. 
Ter. Nay, how is this ? 

HuM. He will not need them more ? 
Ter. Woman, what say'st thou ? 

HuM. Two hunters from the icebergs are come 
down — 
Ere long thy husband comes. 



Ter. And not my boy ? 

Hulda. [laying the clothes together.] He will rot 
need these more ! 

Ter. Then he is dead! 

Huld. Alas, dear lady, yes ! 

Ter. Peace, woman ! peace ! 

The earth were less forlorn without the sun. 
Than I without my boy ! He is not dead ! 

Huld. Would God he were not ! 

Ter. Do not say he is ! 

It is like blasphemy to say he 's dead. 
Heaven would not strip me so — O do not say it ! 
Where are these men ? I '11 forth and meet my boy! 

Huld. [stopping her.] He is not on the road ! No, 
never more 
Will he repass this threshold ! 

Ter. 'T is a dream ! 

Huld. Dear lady, no ! — too plainly tell the hunters 
All that has happened ! 

Ter. And, pr'ythee, what has happened ? 

Huld. A quarrel 'twixt the hunter and our master, 
Who now comes wounded home. 

Ter. And what of Paolo ? 

Huld. O heavy, heavy news ! — The child is 
missing ! 

Ter. Nay, then he is not dead ! — Oh no, not dead ! 
I told thee heaven would not so deal with me ! 
My precious boy will come back on the morrow, — 
Hunters are often lost for many days. 
These men shall seek for him among the wilds — 
J, too, will go myself. Where are the men ? 

Enter the hunter, hastily. 

Hunt. Dear lady, woe is me ! 

Huld. Away, away ! 

Ter. Where is my boy ? 

Hu?it. Oh wretched, wretched mother! 

Ter. Torture me not, but tell me where he is ? 

Hunt. Lady, forgive me for the news I bring ! 

Ter. Then he is dead ? 

Hunt. Most terrible recital ! 

Lady, thy husband, to preserve himself. 
Hath given thy little Paolo to the wolves! 

Ter. [with a scream of horror.] Oh no, no, no ! 

Hunt. He stopped their maws 
With thy poor Paolo's blood ! 

Ter. He did not so ! 

Hunt. Poor little one, how he did cry for thee! 

Huld. Peace ! can'st not hold thy peace. Oh hear 
it not! 
Lady, he is but missing ! 

Hunt. Poor weak thing! 

How he did cling to me, and pray that I 
Would save him from his father ! 

[Teresa cla.'ips her hands, and stands in ■' 
speechless agony. 
I might have snatched a pretty lock of hair ; 
I wish I had — a pretty curling lock I 

Ter. [falling on her hness.] God, of thy mercy 
strengthen, strengthen me ! 
Enable me to bear what is thy will ! 

[She falls insensible to the floor. 

Huld. Wretch, why didst tell it her so cruelly — 
84 



THE SEVEN TEMPTATIONS. 



75 



Besides, the iceberg hunters say not so. 
Thou 'st killed her by thy tidings ! 

Hunt. Hark, he comes ! 

I hear her husband's voice ! 

Huld. She must not see him ! 

[She bears Teresa out. 

Hunt. I must off! I '11 not again meet Olaf ; 
He 's not the facile fool that once he was : 
But there 's that damning deed laid to his charge, 
Will make Teresa curse both him and heaven ! 

[He goes out. 



SCENE VII. 

The following day— the interior of the chapel — Teresa 
on her knees before the image of the Virgin. 

Mother of God, who borest 
That cruel pang which made thy spirit bleed ! 

Who knew'st severest anguish, sorrow sorest, 
Hear me in ray great need ! 

My need is great, my woe is like thine own ! 
I am bereaved of mine only one ! 
Thou know'st I have no other! 
Comfort me, oh my mother! 

Kind Saviour, who didst shed 
Tears for thy Lazarus dead ; 
Who raised the widow's son from off his bier ; 
Who didst endure all woe 
That human hearts can know, 
Hear me, O hear! 

Thou that art strong to comfort, look on me — 

I sit in darkness, and behold no light! 
Over my heart the waves of agony 

Have gone, and left me faint! Forbear to smite 
A bruised and broken reed ! Sustain, sustain ; 

Divinest Comforter, to thee I fly, 
Let me not fly in vain ! 

Support me with thy love, or else I die ! 

Father, who didst send down thy Well-Beloved, 

To suffer shame and death that I might live. 
Hear me, in this great sorrow not unmoved, 

And if I sin, forgive ! 

Whate'er I had was thine! 
A God of mercy thou hast ever been ; 

Assist me to resign ; 
And if I murmur, count it not for sin ! 

How rich I was, I dare not — dare not think ; 
How poor I am, thou knovvest, who canst see 
Into my soul's unfathomed misery ; 

Forgive me if I shrink! 
Forgive me if I shed these human tears ! 
That it so hard appears 

To yield my will to thine, forgive, forgive ! 
Father, it is a bitter cup to drink ! 

[She bows her face, and after a time of 
silence, rises. 
My soul is strengthened ! It shall bear 
My lot, whatever it may be ; 



And from the depths of my despair 
I will look up, and trust in Thee ! 

[She goes slowly out. 



SCENE VIII. 

Many weeks afterunrds — a chamber of Olaf's house 
— Olaf near death, lying vpon his bed — Teresa sits 
beside him. 

Olaf. For years of tyranny I do beseech 
Thy pardon ! — For thy meekness and thy truth, 
The unrepining patience, and the beauty 
Of thy most holy life, my wife, I bless thee ! 

Ter. Thank God ! affliction has been merciful ! 
My boy, thy death has saved thy father's soul ! 

Olaf. And the great might of virtue in thyself; — 
Thy resignation, and thy pitying pardon — 
For these, receive my blessing ere I die — 
These, which have been the means of my salvation ! 
Ter. Bless Him, my husband, who is strong to 

save ! 
Olaf. I do, I do ! — and I rejoice in death ; 
Though, had my life been spared, I would have been 
Both son and husband to thee! — Weep not thou — 
We shall all three ere long be united — 
I, the poor outcast else, be one with you ! 
Ter. Out of affliction has arisen joy, 
And out of black despair immortal hope ! 
Olaf. [after a silence of some time.] Give me thy 
hand, sweet friend ; — I fain would sleep; — 
And if I wake no more, I still would know 
Thou wilt be with me when I pass away ! 

Ter. May the kind, holy Mother bless thy sleep, — 
And bless thy waking, be 't of life or death! 

[Olaf remains perfectly quiet, and after 
some time a light slumber comes over 
Teresa, during which she hears dream- 
like voices singing. 

Oh human soul, 'tis done, 
Past is thy trial ; past thy woe and pain ; 
Nor is there mortal stain 

Upon thy spirit-robes, redeemed one ! 
• Spirit, that through a troubled sea 

Of sin and passion hast been wildly tost, 

And yet not lost, 
With songs of triumph do we welcome thee ! 

Redeemed spirit, come, 
Thine is a heavenly home ! 
Come, freed from human error; 
From frailty, that did gird thee as the sea 

Engirds the earth ; from darkness, doubt and terror, 
Which hung around thy soul ere the light came ! 
From these we welcome thee! 
Hark, heaven itself, rejoices. 
Hark, the celestial voices 
Shouting, like trumpet-peals, thy spirit-name! — 
Oh gladly enter in. 
Thou conqueror of sin. 
The eternal city of the holy ones. 
Where, brighter far than stars, or moons, or suns, 

85 



76 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thou shall shine out before the Infinite ! — 
And see! a heavenly child, 
With garments undefded, 
Streaming upon the air like odorous light, 
Awaits to welcome thee! 
Oh father, clasp thy boy. 
Pour out thy soul in joy. 
In love, which human frailly held in thrall ; — 

Boy, clasp thy father now, 
Distrust and fear in heaven there cannot be, 

For love enfoldeth all .' 
Oh happy pair, too long divided, 

Pour out your souls in one strong sj^mpatliy! 
Eternal Love your meeting steps hath guided. 
Ne'er to be parted through eternity! 
Ter. {wahing.] I know that he is dead ; but this 
sweet omen. 
These holy voices pealing joy in heaven. 
Have taken the sting from death ! My dear, dear 

husband, 
I know that thou art blessed — art reunited 
Unto our boy! 

[She bevds over the body for a few mo- 
ments ; then hiieeling down and cov- 
ering her face, she remains in silent 
prayer. 



Achzib's mission was ended ; and he returned to 
his fellows with exultation. " I have done that which 
I set out to do !" he exclaimed, " and ye shall declare 
me victor. I have proved the supremacy of evil : for 
of the seven whom I have' tried, I have won four. 
Let me no longer be called Achzib the Liar, for I 
have proved that evil obtains a wider and more pow- 
erful agency than good. I have won four young 
men, in the strength of manhood, and in the full 
force of intellect : I have lost only a poor scholar, an 
old man, and a woman !" 

" Methinks," said the younger spirit, " thou hast 
been in some measure defeated ; inasmuch as these 
feeble ones were mightier than thou !" 

" I was a fool," returned Achzib, *' to attempt any 
of the three : in them, passion, and the aptitude to 
sin, were weak : one was enfeebled by sickness, one 
by old age, the third by long endurance of evil." 

"Thy triumph had been greater," interrupted the 
elder, "had thou won any of the three, whom, losing, 
thou pretendest to undervalue; the four thou hast 
■won were an easy conquest, for though boastful of 
virtue, they were weak in principle." 

"It matters not," said Achzib: "any of these, but 
for my ministration, might have gone on through life 
without materially adding to crime; without draw- 
ing others after them into sin ; and without baptizing 
human hearts in woe, as they have done; and I tell 
ye, of the seven whom I have tried, four have be- 
come my victims." 

" We deny it not," said the two. 

" Then let me reign as a crowned one," exclaimed 
Achzib, " for I have proved that evil is mightier than 
good !" 

As Achzib thus spoke, an angel of truth stood be- 



fore them. " Achzib," said he, " thou hast tried the 
sons of men, and hast tempted four to perdition; thus 
has the All-wise permitted. I come not, however, to 
speak of their doom, but of good and evil as it regards 
human life. Thou hast introduced sin and sorrow 
among men ; but thou hast only feebly known the re- 
sult of every downward step in human degradation 
and woe. Thou hast seen evil obtaining the mastery 
over good ; sin laying desolate the home of virtue 
and peace ; the good and the kind brought to the 
grave, or going through life mourning because of it; 
and thou hast exclaimed, 'surely, I am mightier than 
God !' Thou hast riveted on the chains of oppres- 
sion; thou hast darkened the minds of the noble and 
pure, with thy lying deeds ; and hast left generations 
yet unborn, to groan under thy sinful agency ; and 
men beholding these things, have exclaimed, with 
bleeding hearts, 'surely, evil is mightier than good!' 
But a superior intelligence looks beyond the outward 
seeming, and perceives in the midst of evil, only more 
widely-extended good. 

" O fools and blind, you cannot degrade God ! Your 
malign interference cannot reverse the decrees of his 
omnifiotent wisdom. His goodness upholds and per- 
vades all things, both of the outward creation, and 
man's moral existence ; and though evil is permitted, 
it neither mars nor deranges the great plan of universal 
Providence. Evil, like darkness, which makes visible 
the glory and immensity of Cod's works, unseen by 
day, though still present ; brings forth, in the moral 
world, the loveliness, the nobility, and the joy-dif- 
fusing nature of virtue. It is the depth of shadow, 
by which good is thrown into strong relief; it is the 
source whence, many of the highest actions, many of 
the most triumphant passages of a conflicting life; 
whence often, the most melting and beautiful trophies 
of the soul, winged in all its strength and affection, 
have been made to proceed. It is the trial of love, 
of friith, of patience ; it calls for forgiveness, and 
Christian charity ; it teaches forbearance, meekness, 
and pity. It is the subjection to evil which is the 
ordeal of the human spirit, and it is the severe con- 
trast of crime, which leads it to pay its devoutest 
homage to virtue. 

" Designer of evil, thou hast failed ! For every 
soul whom thou hast lured into sin, thou hast thrown 
others, through the anguish, or by the example of 
that sin, upon the healing mercy of Hira who is able 
and willing to save !" 

Achzib turned abashed from the speaker of Truth, 
and retired with his fellows into darkness; and the 
angel lifting up his voice, poured out a hymn of 
praise. 
Thou, that createdst with a word each star; 

Who, out of nothingness brought systems forth, 
Yet didst exalt beyond creation, far, 

The human soul, immortal at its birth ; — 
Thou gavest light and darkness ; life and death; 
Thou gavest good and ill. 
Twin powers, to be 
Companions of its mortal, devious path ; 
Yet left the human will, 
Unlimited and free ! 

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HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



77 



We know how pain and woe, 

Sorrow and sin, make up the sum of life! 

How good and evil are at ceaseless strife. 
And how the soul doth err in choice, we know ! 
Yet not for this droop we, nor are afraid ; 

We know thy goodness, we behold thy might ; 
We know thy truth can never be gainsaid, 

And what thou dost is right .' 
We glorify thy name that thus it is ; — 
We glorify thy name for more than this ! 
We know that out of darkness shines thy light; 

That out of evil cometh forth thy good ; 
That none shall circumvent the Infinite, 
Nor can Omnipotence be e'er subdued ! 



We know that doubt shall cease, and feeble terror; 

That thou wilt wipe all tears from every eye ! 
That thine Almighty Truth shall vanquish error. 
And death shall die! 

We know that this shall be, 
Therefore we trust in thee. 
And pour in balm to human hearts that bleed ; 
And bind the broken and the bruised reed ; 
And say, rejoice, rejoice ! 

For truth is strong ! 
Exalt ye every voice 
In one triumphant song — 
For truth is God — and he shall make you free ! 
Evil is but of Time ; — Good of Eternity ! 



gmnsi atntr jFite-.^ttie Wtv^t^. 



TO 

CAROLINE BOWLES, 

AN 

HONOURED FELLOW-LABOURER. 
THIS LITTLE BOOK, 

THE DESIGN OF WHICH IS 

TO MAKE THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTIANITY 

AN ENDEARED AND FAMILIAR 

FIRE-SIDE GUEST, 

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
L'ENVOI. 

I HAVE indited thee with care and love, 
My little book; and now I send thee forth 

On a good mission like the gentle dove. 

Bearing glad tidings with thee o'er the earth. 

Thou wast not meant for riot and for jest. 
Dear little book, all simple as thou art ; 

But in sweet homes to be a loving guest ; 
And find a place in many a guileless heart. 

Have not a fear ! I know that thou wilt find 
Thy journey pleasant as a path of flowers, 

For pure and youthful hearts are ever kind. 
Glad to be pleased with labour such as ours. 

Sit down with little children by the way. 
And tell them of sweet Marien how she went 

Over the weary world from day lo day. 

On christian works of love, like thee, intent. 

Tell them of Him who framed the sea, the sky ; 

The glorious earth and all that dwell therein ; 
And of that Holy One made strong to die, 

Sinless himself, to save the world from sin. 

And thou hast many a tale of wonder planned 
With various art to make thy spirit wise ; 



These have I given thee that thou may'st command 
Glad smiles at will and pitying tears and sighs. 

For thus, young, generous spirits would be won; 

And I have gifted thee to win them best ; 
Now go thou forth undaunted, gentle one. 

And trust thy cause to every youthful breast 

Go forth, and have thou neither fear nor shame; 

Many shall be thy friends, thy foes be few ; 
And greet thou those who love thee in my name, 

Yea, greet them warmly ! Little book, adieu ! 



MARIEN'S PILGRIMAGE. 

A FIRE-SIDE STORY. 

Christianity, like a child, goes wandering over 
the world. Fearless in its innocence, it is not abash- 
ed before princes, nor confounded by the wisdom of 
synods. Before it the blood-stained warrior sheathes 
his sword, and plucks the laurel from his brow; — 
the midnight murderer turns from his purpose, and, 
like the heart-smitten disciple, goes out and weeps 
bitterly. It brings liberty to the captive, joy to the 
mourner, freedom to the slave, repentance and for- 
giveness to the sinner, hope to the faint-hearled, and 
assurance to the dying. 

It enters the huts of poor men, and sits down with 
them and their children; it makes them contented 
in the midst of privations, and leaves behind an 
everlasting blessing. It walks through great cities, 
amid all their pomp and splendour, their unimaginable 
pride, and their unutterable misery, a purifying, en- 
nobling, correcting, and redeeming angel. 

It is alike the beautiful companion of childhood 
and the comfortable associate of age. It ennobles 
the noble ; gives wisdom to the wise ; and new 
grace to the lovely. The patriot, the priest, the poet, 
and the eloquent man, all derive their sublime 
power from its influence. 

87 



78 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thanks be to the Eternal Father, who has made 
us one with Him through the benign Spirit of 
Christianity! 



PART I, 



Through the wide world went Marien 

On a holy mission sent, 
A little child of tender years, 

Throughout the world she went. 

And ever, as she went along. 

Sweet flowers sprang 'neath her feet ; 

All flowers that were most beautiful, 
Of virtues strong and sweet. 

And ever, as she went along. 
The desert beasts grew tame ; 

And man, the savage, dyed with blood. 
The merciful became. 

Now, if you will attend to me, 

I will in order tell 
The history of this little child. 

And what to her befel. 

No friend at all had Marien, 

And at the break of day. 
In a lonesome place within the world, 

In quiet thought she lay. 

The stars were lost in coming mom. 
The moon was pale and dim. 

And the golden sun was rising 
Over the ocean's rim. 

With upturned eye lay Marien; — 

" And I am alone," said she, 
" Though the blackbird and the nightingale 

Sing in the forest-tree : 

" Though the weak woodland creatures 

Come to me when I call, 
And eat their food from out my hand ; 

And I am loved by all : 

"Though sun, and moon, and stars come out. 

And flowers of fairest grace, 
And whale'er God made beautiful, 

Are with me in this place: 

"Yet I am all alone, alone, 

Alone both night and day! 
So I will forth info the world, 

And do what good I may: 

" For many a heart is sorrowful. 
And I that heart may cheer; — 

And many a weary captive pines 
In dungeons dark and drear; — 

And I the iron bonds may loose, — 
Then why abide I here ? 

" And many a .spirit dark with crime, 

Yet longeth to repent ; 
And many a grievous wrong is done 

To the weak and innocent; — 



And I may do the injured right, 
May save the penitent! 

" Up, I will forth into the world!" 

And, thus as she did say. 
Sweet Marien from the ground rose up 

And went forth on her way. 

Through the wood went Marien, 
The thick wood and the green ; 

And not lar had she travelled ere 
A cruel sight was seen. 

Under the green and leafy boughs 
Where singing birds were set ; 

At strife about their heritage, 
Two ruffian brothers met. 

"Thou shalt not of our father's land," 
The elder said, "have part!" 

The younger brother spoke no word. 
But stabbed him to the heart. 

Then deep into the forest dark 
With desperate speed he ran. 

And gentle Marien stood beside 
The bleeding, murdered man. 

With pitying tears that would not cease. 
She washed his wounded side, 

And prayed him to have faith in Him 
Who for the sinner died. 

But no sign made the murdered man, 
There stiff in death he lay; — 

And Marien through the forest wild 
Went mourning on her way. 

Ere long, as she went wandering on, 
She came to where there sat. 

With folded arms upon her breast, 
A woman desolate. 

Pale was she as the marble stone. 
And steadfast was her eye; 

She sat enchained, as in a trance. 
By her great misery. 

" What ails thee, mother ?" Marien said. 
In a gentle voice and sweet ; 

" What aileth thee, my mother?" 
And knelt down at her feet. 

" What aileth thee, my mother?" 

Kind Marien still did say; 
And those two words, mij mother, 

To the lone heart found their way. 
As one who wakeneth in amaze. 

She quickly raised her head ; — 
And " Who is 't calls me mother ?" 

Said she, " my child is dead !" 

"He was the last of seven sons — 
He is dead — I have none other; — 

This is the day they bury him ; — 
Who is it calls me mother ?" 

" 'T is I," said gentle Marien, 
" Dear soul, be comforted !" 



HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



79 



But the woman only wrung her hands, 
And cried, " My son is dead I" 

" Be comforted," said Marien, 

And then she sweetly spake 
Of Jesus Christ, and how he came 

The sting from death to take. 

She told of all his life-long love. 

His soul by suffering tried : 
And how at last his mother stood 

To see him crucified. 

Of the disciples' broken hearts 
She told, of pangs and pain; 

Of Mary at the sepulchre. 
And Christ arisen again. 

"Then sorrow not," she said, " as though 

Thou wert of all bereft ; 
For still, though they beloved are not, 

This blessed faith is left. 

" That when thy dream of life is o'er 
Thou shall embrace thy seven, 

More beautiful than earthly sons. 
With our dear Lord in heaven !" 

Down on her knees the woman fell, 
And " blessed be God," said she, 

" Who in my sorest need hath sent 
This comforter to me I" 



PART II. 

Now Marien in the woman's house 
Abode a little space, 

And comfort to the mother came ; 
And a dear daughter's place 

Had Marien in the woman's heart, 

Doing the while a daughter's part 

But now 'twas time that she must go; 

For Marien's duly was not there, 
Now grief was past and woe was done ; 
So, with the rising of the sun. 

She rose up forth to lare. 

" Nay, bide with me," the woman said, 

" Or. if as thou dost say. 
Duty forbids that this may be, 
I a day's journey go with thee. 

To speed thee on the way." 

So forth the loving pair set out. 
The woman and the child ; 

And first they crossed the desert heath, 
And then the mountains wild. 

And in the woman's arms she lay. 

That night within the forest hoar. 
And the next morn, with loving heart, 
They said farewell, as tliose who part 
To meet on earth no more. 



Upon her way went Marien, 

.rr> m«|.r. (iH SCt Of dfly, 



From morn 
8' 



M 



And the peace of God that passeth word, 

Upon her spirit lay. 
And oftentimes she sang aloud 

As she went on her way. 

The joyfulest song sang Marien 

That e'er left human tongue; 
The very birds were mute to hear 

The holy words she sung. 

But now the darksome night came on, 

And Marien lay her down 
Within a little way-side cave. 

On mosses green and brown. 

And in the deepest hush of night 

Rude robbers entered in ; 
And first they ate and drank, then rose 

To do a deed of sin. 

For with them was a feeble man. 
Whom they had robbed, and they 

Here came to foully murder him. 
And hide him from the day. 

Up from her bed sprang Marien, 

With heavenly power endued ; 
And in her glorious innocence. 

Stood 'mong the robbers rude. 

" Ye shall not take the life of man !" 

Spake Marien low and sweet ; 
" For this will God take strict account, 

Before his judgment-seat!" 

Out from the cave the robbers fled. 

For they believed there stood, 
A spirit stern and beautiful. 

Not aught of flesh and blood. 

And two from out the robber-band 

Thenceforward did repent. 
And lived two humble Christian men, 

On righteous deeds intent. 

When from the cave the robber-band 

Had fled, the aged man 
Rose from the floor where he was laid, 

And marvelling much, began. 

" Who art thou, child ? and those few words 
Of might which thou hast spoken. 

What may they be ? My foes have fled — 
And lo ! my bonds are broken ; 

At thy few words my foes have fled. 
My rigid bonds have broken '." 

Then Maria 'gan to tell him how, 
Through her God's power had wTOUght; 

And him from peril, nigh to death. 
Thus wondrously had brought. 

She told him how holy Daniel's faith 

The caged beasts disarmed ; 
How the three righteous children walked 

Tlirough raging fire unharmed. 
89 



80 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



She told how Peter, bound with chains, 

Lay in the prison-ward. 
How God's good angel freed him straight, 
And the strong prison's iron gate 

Oped of its own accord. 

" God knows our wants," said Marien 

" And in our sorest need. 
Puts forth his arm to rescue us. 
For he is merciful, and thus 

It is that thou art freed." 

" Let us go hence !" the old man said, 

And o'er the forest sod. 
They, hand in hand, with quiet steps. 

Went forward praising God. 

Ere noontide, to a forest grange 

They came, a sylvan place, « 

Where trooped, no longer fearing man. 
The forest's native race, 

The white doe and the antlered stag, 
And every beast of chase. 

'Twas joy to see them drawing near 

The old man as he came; 
And this he stroked, and that he called 

By some familiar name. 

'Twas joy unto the little child 
This little pleasant place to see ; 

" This is my home," he said, " and here 
Thou shalt abide with me." 

" I have no child to be mine heir, 

And I am growing old; — 
Thou shalt be heir of all my lands. 

And heir of all my gold. 

"Thou shalt be comfort to mine age. 

And here within this wood, 
'Mongst faithful, gentle things, shalt thou 

Grow up to womanhood !" 

There dwelt the lovely Marien, 

Within the forest wild. 
And she unto the lone old man 

Was dearer than a child. 

There dwelt the lovely Marien ; 

Yet not long dwelt she there ; — 
The old man died ; — and then came forth 

A kinsman for the heir. 

A lean and rugged man of pelf. 

In wickedness grown old ; ■ 
From some vile city-den he came 

And seized upon the gold; — 
He slew the tamed forest-beasts, — 

The forest-grange he sold. 

And with hard speeches, coarse and rude. 

Away the child he sent : 
Meek Marien answered not a word. 

But through the forest went. 



PART III. 



Through the wild wood went Marien, 

For many a weary day ; 
Her food the forest-fruits, and on 

The forest-turf she lay. 

The wildem wood was skirted 
By moorlands dry and brown ; 

And after them came Marien 
Into a little town. 

At entrance of the little town 

A cross stood by the way, 
A rude stone cross, and there she knelt 

A little prayer to say. 

Then on the stone-steps sate her down ; 

And soon beside her crept, 
A pale child with a clasped book. 

And all the while she wept. 

"Why weep you, child," asked Marien, 
" What troubleth you so sore ?" 

At these words spoken tenderly, 
The child wept more and more. 

" I have not heard," at length he said, 
" Kind words this many a year. 

My mother is dead — and my father 
Is a hard man and severe. 

" I sit in corners of the house 
Where none can see me weep; 

And in the quiet of the day 
'Tis here I often creep. 

" The kid leaps by his mother's side, 

The singing birds are glad : 
But when I play me in the sun. 

My heart is ever sad. 

" They say this blessed book can heal 

All trouble, and therefore 
All day I keep it in my sight ; 
I lay it 'neath my head at night. 
But it doth bring no cure to me : — 
I know not what the cause may be. 

For I of learning have no store !" 

Thereat, like to a broken flower 
The child drooped down his head ; 

Then Marien took the clasped book 
And of the Saviour read. 

She read of him the humble child 

Of poverty and scorn ; 
How holy angels sang for him 

The night that he was born. 

How blessed angels came from heaven 
To hail that Christmas night. 

And shepherd people with their flocks 
Beheld the glorious sight. 

Then read she how, a growing youth, 

His parents he obeyed. 
And served with unrepining will 

St. Joseph at his trade. 

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HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



81 



Then how he grew to man's estate 

And wandered up and down, 
Preaching upon the lone sea-side, 

And in the busy town. 

Of all his tenderness, his love, 

Page after page she read ; 
How he made whole the sick, the maimed, 

And how he raised the dead. 

And how he loved the children small. 

Even of low degree ; 
And how he blessed them o'er and o'er. 

And set them on his knee. 

When this the little child had heard 

He spoke in accents low, 
"Would that I had been one with them 

To have been blessed so!" 

"Thou shalt be blessed, gentle one !" 

Said Marien kind and mild, 
" Christ, the Great Comforter, doth bless 

Thee, even now, poor child !" 

So conversed they of holy things 

Until the closing day. 
Then Marien and the little child 

Rose up to go their way. 

As to the town they came, they passed 
An ancient church, and " here 

Let us go in I" the pale child said, 

"For the organ pealeth over head. 
And that sweet strain of holy sound 
Like a heavenly vesture wraps me round. 

And my heavy heart doth cheer." 

So Marien and the little child 

Into the church they stole ; 
And many voices rich and soft 
Rose upward from the organ loft. 
And the majestic instrument 
Pealed to an anthem that was sent 

To soothe a troubled soul. 

Anon the voices died away, 

The pealing organ ceased. 
And through the church's ancient door 

Passed chorister and priest. 

And Marien and the little child 

Went forward hand in hand 
Adown the chancel aisle, and then 

At once they made a stand. 

Over the altar hung a piece 

With holy influence fraught, 
A work divine of wondrous skill 

By some old painter wrought. 

The gracious Saviour breathing love, 
Was there like life expressed. 

And round his knees the children small 
Were thronging to be blessed. 

Down dropped the child upon his knees. 

And weeping, tenderly 
Cried " bless me also, poor and weak, 

Or let me go to thee !" 



Anon his little head dropped low, 

And his white lips 'gan to say, 
" Oh kiss me gentle one, for now 

Even I am called away — 
The blessed mother's voice I hear. 

It calleth me away!" 

So died the child ; — and Marien laid 

His meek arms on his breast. 
With the clasped book between his hands : - 

Thus God had given him rest ! 

And Marien, weeping holy tears. 

Sate down beside the dead. 
And slept that night within the church, 

As in a kingly bed. 

Scarce from the church had Marien passed. 

When came the father there. 
As was his wont, though fierce and bad, 

To say a morning prayer. 

Not seven paces had he gone. 
When, heart-struck, he surveyed 

Before his feet, thtit little child 
In his dead beauty laid. 

At once as by a lightning stroke 

His softened soul was torn 
With a deep sense of all the wrong 

That little child had borne. 

And then came back the timid voice 

The footstep faint and low. 
The many little arts to please. 

The look of hopeless woe. 
And many a shuddering memory 

Of harsh rebuke and blow. 
No prayer of self-approving words. 

As was his wont, he said. 
But humbled, weeping, self-condemned. 

He stood before the dead. 



PART IV. 



Te\ long days' travel Marien went. 
O'er woodland and o'er wold. 

Teaching and preaching by the way. 
Like Jesus Christ of old. 

Sometimes within the Baron's hall 
A lodging she would find. 

And never went she from the door 
But blessings staid behind ; 

Proud foes forgiven, revenge withheld. 
And plenteous peace of mind. 

With shepherd people on the hills ; 

With toiling peasant men. 
She sate; with women dwelling lone, 

On mountain or in glen. 

By wayside wells she sate her down. 
With pilgrims old and bent; 

Or, hand in hand, with children small. 
To the village school she went. 
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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



She made them spare the singing birds 

All in their leafy bowers : 
She made them love all living things ; 

And praise God for the flowers. 

But now she came to where there raged 

Wild war throughout the land ; 
She heard the vexed people's cry ; 
She saw the ravaged corn-fields lie ; 
The hamlets smoking to the sky ; 
And everywhere careering by 

The spoiler's savage band. 

All hearts were changed. Like ravening wolves 

Men preyed upon each other ; 
Dead children lay on the bloody mould ; 
And pitiless had grown, and cold, 

The heart of many a mother. 

Wild shouts and horrid shrieks around 

Filled all the air ; the earth 
Reeked with the blood that had been spilt ; 

And man made mockery and mirth 
Of agony and mortal woe : — 
Yet through all this did Marien go. 

Outraged of heart, the child went on, 

Weeping upon her way; 
And now she soothed a dying wretch ; 
Then for another ran to fetch 

Water; and every day 
Did deeds of mercy good and mild : — 
Thus journeyed on the pitying child. 

On went she, — and as she went on, 

Men grew ashamed of blood, 
So beautiful did mercy seem ; 

And the wild soldier rude 
Slunk back as slinks a noisome beast; 

And to their homes once more 
Came mothers with their little ones ; 

And old men, weak and hoar, 
Sate in the sun as they had wont, 

Unfearing at the door. 

On went the child, — and as she went, 

Within the Baron's hall, 
Were hung up helm and mail and sword. 

To rust upon the wall. 

On went she, — and the poets sung 

No longer war's acclaim. 
But holy hymns of love and joy, 

To hail her as she came. 

On went she, like an angel good ; 

With bounding steps she went, 
Day after day, until she came 

To the great Conqueror's tent. 

There sat he, a strong man of blood. 
Steel-mailed and scarfed with blue. 

Poring o'er charts of distant lands, 
For new lands to subdue. 



Beside him stood the gentle child ; 

And now he traced with care. 
Measuring from river unto sea, 

A fertile region fair. 

" 'Tis a good land," said Marien, 

" From river unto sea ; 
And there a quiet people dwell. 

Who never heard of thee. 

" They feed their flocks and herds in peace ; 

The fruitful vine they till ; 
The quiet homes their fathers built 

They and their children fill. 

" Even now their happy children's joy 

Thee and thy will condemn ; 
Wherefore should'st thou possess that land ? 

God gave it unto ttiem!" 

Into her face the proud man looked. 

Amazed at what he heard; 
Then turned unto his charts again. 

And answered never a word. 

Another land among the hills 

He measured with his eye; 
" 'Tis a stern land," said Marien, 

" A land of liberty ! 

" There fled the Christians in old time, 
And built their churches there ; 

The bells upon the sabbath morn 
Call all that land to prayer. 

" Would'st thou God's people tribulate ? 

A cursed thing it were 
To make that Christian land of love 

A bloody sepulchre !" 
The proud man turned him round about 

And fiercely gazed at her. 

" Rivers of blood have flowed for thee !" 

Unblenching Marien said, 
" And many a Christian land hast thou 

With Christian blood made red. 

" Up, sin no more ! 'Tis coming now, 

The day thou canst not flee. 
When all the thousands thou hast slain 

God will require of thee! 

"Thou man of blood, repent, repent, 

Repent whilst yet thou may. 
And store up deeds of love and peace 

Against that awful day!" 

Up from his seat the conqueror rose. 

And paced the uneasy tent, 
And ground his teeth and groaned aloud, 

As one that doth repent. 

Forth from the tent sped Marien ; 

And many a summer's day 
Throughout a blessed land of peace 

She journeyed on her way. 

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83 



PART V. 



At length, after long travel past, 

She came as it grew late, 
Along a beaten road, that led 

To a vast city gate. 

A vast and populous city, where 
Rose dome, and tower, and spire, 
And many a gilded pinnacle. 
Far-seen, as the bright sunset fell, 
Like glittering points of fire. 

A city vast and populous. 

Whose thronging multitude 
Sent forth a sound afar-off heard. 

Strong as the ocean-flood. 

A strong, deep sound of many sounds, 

Toil, pleasure, pain, delight. 
And traffic, myriad-wheeled, whose din 

Ceased not by day or night. 

And through the city gate a throng 

Passed ever, never spent ; 
A busy mingling human tide 

Of those who came and went 

'T was a proud city and a rich ; 

A city fair and old ; 
Filled with the world's most costly things, - 

Of precious stones and gold ; 
Of silks, fine woods, and spiceries ; 

And all that's bought and sold. 

Thither came homeless Marien, 

Came there as it grew late, 
Foot-sore and weary, friendless, poor. 

Unto the city gate. 

There found her a poor carpenter 

Returning from his trade. 
And he, with pitying countenance. 

Her weary form surveyed. 

" Come !" said he, " thou unto my house, 

Shalt go: and of my bread. 
And of my cup, thou shall partake ; 
Shalt bide with me !" and as he spake 

Her weary steps he led. 

Unto an humble place that stood 

'Mong dwellings of the poor 
He brought her ; bade her welcome thrice 

Unto his lowly door. 

The good-wife met her with like cheer, 
" And though our fare is scant, 

Fear not," she said, "whilst we have food 
It is not thou shall want'." 

So dwelt she with this humble pair 

In the great city, cherished so. 
As parents cherish their first-born ; 

Nor would they let her go. 

Thus for a year she dwelt with them ; 
And that while their abode 



Was blessed exceedingly; their store 

Grew daily, weekly, more and more ; 
And peace so multiplied around. 
The very hearth seemed holy ground. 
As if once more on earth was found 
The Paradise of God. 

'T was she that blessed the bread they ate, 
'T was she soothed all their cares ; 

They knew not that they entertained 
An angel unawares. 

With simple hearts that had no guile 

They of the Saviour heard ; 
And, weeping tears of joyful faith. 

Believed and blessed each word. 

No more they marvelled how their board 

With plenteous food was spread ; 
Five barley loaves dispensed by Christ 

The famished thousands fed. 

With love that would not be repressed. 

Their kindling bosoms burned. 
And 'mong their neighbours poor they went 

To teach what they had learned. 

To teach how Christ unto the poor. 

The sinner vile, was sent; 
How Mary washed his feet with tears, 
And wiped them with her golden hairs, 

A weeping penitent. 

And how the sinful woman stood 

Unjudged before his face; 
How the poor prodigal sped back 

Repentant to his place ; 

How to the thief upon the cross 

He said, thou art forgiven. 
And thou shalt be with me this day. 

In the paradise of Heaven. 

So preached the carpenter ; and men 

Turned from their evil ways, 
And Christian prayer was heard around. 

And Christian hymns of praise. 

Strange seemed these things ; and to the rich. 

And to the proud, 'twas told, 
How many of the meaner sort 

Lived like the saints of old. 

How holy, blameless, were their lives ; 

And how poor craflsmen vile, 
Amid their fellows, tool in hand. 

The gospel preached the while. 

'T was told of Marien ; how she came 
A wanderer none knew whence ; 

Friendless and poor, of mind mature, 
A child in innocence ; 

As thus 'twas told, some blessed God, 
But others took oflTence. 

" Why," said they, " should this simple child. 

These men of low degree. 
Thus preach and practise ? what new faith 

Is there, or need there be ? 

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" Bishops have taught a thousand years, 

And learned men are they ; 
These are mad doctrines, false, unfit, 

Devised to lead astray." 

Therefore the simple people were 

To a full synod brought, 
To answer for their altered lives, 

And for the faith they taught. 
Much marvelled all those learned men 

To see them fearless stand. 
Calm, unabashed ; with ready wit, 

And language at command. 
And to their taunts of low estate, 

They answered, " let alone 
All pride of rank ; Christ chose the poor, 

To make his gospel known. 

"And what are we ? — Immortal souls. 
For whom Christ's blood was shed ; 

Children of one great sire, with ye, 

Co-heirs of Immortality ; 

Alike you both in birth and death ; 

Alone our lot so differeth, 

As God shall judge the dead !" 

Then were they questioned of old creeds ; 

By sophistries perplexed ; 
So that their artless lore might fail, 

Their simple souls be vexed. 

But they were steadfast in the faith 

As taught the holy book ; 
And thence it was adjudged a crime 

Upon its page to look. 

And the grave synod rose in wrath. 

And they were judged blasphemers dire, 

And doomed, their daring heresies 
To expiate in fire. 



PART VI. 



So perished for their faith in Christ, 
This righteous couple ; for their foes 

Beseeching pardon ; blessing God 
That they were reckoned among those 

Worthy to die for Christ, whose place 

Is with the Holiest face to face. 

Beside the pile stood Marien 

Weeping sad human tears, 
Yet strengthening, comforting the while, 

And soothing all their fears. 

And as she spoke, her countenance 
With heavenly lustre beamed. 

And all around her youthful form 
Celestial beauty streamed. 

Men looked on her with wondering awe. 

As on an angel's face, 
And pity, and love, and sweet remorse. 

In every heart had place. 



Throughout the city rang the tale 

Of this divinest child ; 
And for her sake unto her faith 

Many were reconciled. 

Unto the synod came these things ; 

And " here let her be brought, 
To answer for herself," they said, 

" And suffer as she ought." 

As Christ among the doctors stood. 

So she among these men, 
Stern, rugged-browed, and deeply versed 

In parchment and in pen ; 
Meekly she stood ; when they reviled, 

Reviling not again. 

Yet with sweet words and argument. 

Rather of love than lore, 
She pleaded for the faith, as ne'er 

Pled youthful tongue before. 

All were amazed who heard her words ; 

And straightway spoke each one 
Unto his neighbour, " Through this child 

May mighty things be done!" 

Then threatening words anon grew soft, 
" And thou with us shall go," 

They said, " and with the poor and vile, 
No longer suffer woe. 

" Thou shalt be clothed in purple robes. 

In gold and linen fine ; 
Shalt eat the daintiest food ; shalt drink 

The spirit-gladdening wine. 

" And with us in proud palaces 
A crowned queen shalt be ; 

Leave but these men, for they are poor. 
And can do nought for thee! 

" Behold the stake at which they bum — 

The iron-rack behold — 
Are these the men to make thee rich 

With silver and with gold ? 

"Come with us, glorious Marien, 

And in our places high. 
We will exalt thee as a queen. 

Will deck thee royally !" 

" Nay," said sweet Marien, " as a queen 

It is not I may bide ; 
I am not won with power nor gold. 

Nor aught of human pride. 

" Who clothes the lilies of the field. 
Will clothe me, even as they ; 

Who hears the ravens when they cry. 
Will feed me day by day!" 

But still the tempters kept with her ; 

And " Come away," they said. 
And she unto a sumptuous dome 

With royal pomp was led. 

They showed her all that palace proud ; 

They showed her store of gold ; 
They told her of a hundred realms. 

And wealth a hundred-fold. 

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85 



"And all this shall be thine," they said, 

"All this be thine, and more. 
So thou wilt bind thyself to us. 

And leave the weak and poor! 

" Thou that art weak and poor thyself, 

A crowned queen shall be!" 
Said Marien, " In the wilderness 

The Tempter came, and he 
Offered to Jesus Christ such gifts 

As now ye offer me !" 

Those rugged brows grew dark. " Come now 

With us," they fiercely said, 
" And see what never daylight saw, 

The halls of dool and dread !" 

Then unto chambers hidden, vast, 

Mysterious, far from view. 
They led her; there was set the rack, 

The knotted cord, the screw, 
And many a horrid instrument, 

Whose dark ensanguined hue 
Told of their purpose, "These," said they, 
"Many strange wonders do! 

"Look well ; could'st thou endure these things ? 

Strong men have died ere now 
Under their torment; men were Ihey, 

A little child art thou !" 

Then Marien meekly answered, " What 

God suffereth you to dare. 
He, to whom darkness is as light. 

Will strengthen me to bear!" 

" Come onward yet," they said ; and down 

Damp, broken stairs they went ; 
Down, down to hidden vaults of stone, 

Through vapours pes;-!ent. 

And then with sullen iron keys 

They opened doors of stone ; 
And heavy chained captives there 

They showed her, one by one. 

Old, white-haired men ; men middle-aged, 

That had been strong of limb; 
But each, now pallid, hollow-eyed. 

Like spectres worn and dim. 

And many, as the dull door oped, 

Ne'er lifted up the head; — 
Heart-broken victims of long pain, 

Whose very hope was dead. 

Others with feverish restlessness 

Sprang up, and with quick cry, 
That thrilled the hearer to the soul, 

Demanded liberty. 

With bleedmg heart went Marien on ; 

And her conductors spake, 
"These are our victims; these await 

The rack, the cord, the stake. 

" And as these are, so shall thou be, 

If thou our will gainsay; 
Accept our service, pride, and power; 

Or, on this very day, 



Racked, prisoned, poor, and miserable. 
Thou shall be, even as they !" 

Down on the floor sank Marien, 
And, "Oh, dear Lord," she cried, 

" Assist thy poor and trembling one 
This awful hour to bide ; 

Let me be strong to do thy will. 
Like him who bowed, and died !" 

They took her: — of thai prison house, 

The secrets who may say ? — 
Racked, lettered, caplived, in their power. 

The gentle Marien lay; 
Captive within their torture-halls 

A long night and a day ! 



PART VII. 



Then forth they brought her ; gave her wine 

And pleasant food to eat ; 
And " rest thee, Marien, in our arms," 

Sung syren voices sweet. 

" Rest thee within our arms ; refresh 

Thy fainting soul with wine ; 
Eat and be glad ; forget the past. 

And make all pleasure thine !" 

"Tempt me not!" said the feeble child, 
" Take hence your spiced bowl ; 

Is 't not enough to rack my limbs, 
But you must vex my soul ? 

" Look al my flesh, which ye have torn ; 

Look at your bloody rack ; — 
Take hence your gifts, and let me go 

To my own people back. 

" To my own people let me go, 

A bruised and broken reed ; 
I for your purpose am unmeet ; 

Let me go hence with speed." 

So, in her weakness, prayed the child ; 

But those remorseless men. 
More dead than living, bore her back 

Unto their prison-den. 

Into a noisome prison-house, 
With iron-doors made fast, ., 

'Mong felons and 'mong murderers. 
Was gentle Marien cast. 

Upon the hard, cold prison-floor 

Sick unto death she lay. 
As if God had forsaken her, 

For many a weary day. 

She thought of her sweet forest life. 

And of those creatures small. 
Weak, woodland creatures, tamed by love, 

That came unto her call. 

She thought of him, the forest-lord. 

And of the forest-grange ; 
Of the delicious life she led, 

With liberty to range. 

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86 HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


And as she thought, even as a child's. 


Thus, amid blessings, prayers, and tears 


The ceaseless tears did flow. 


About the break of day. 


For torturing pain and misery 


She left the city, praising God 


Had brought her spirit low. 


For her release ; and swiftly trod 


When one from out the felon-band 


Upon her unknown way. 


Came softly to her side. 




And "do not weep, thou little child !" 




With pitying voice, he cried. 


PART VIII. 


" At sight of thee, I know not why. 




My softened heart doth burn. 




And the gone tenderness of youth 


A BOW-SHOT from the city-gate 


Doth to my soul return. 


Turned Marien from the plain, 


"I think upon my early days. 
Like unto days of heaven; 


Intent by unfrequented ways 
The mountain-land to gain. 


And I, that have not wept for years, 


With bounding step she onward went. 


Even as a child, shed ceaseless tears, 


Over the moorland fells; 


And pray to be forgiven !" 


O'er fragrant tracks of purple thyme. 


" Blessed be God !',' said Marien, 


And crimson heather-bells. 


And rose up from the floor; 


Joyful in her release she went, 


" 1 was not hither brought in vain ! 


Still onward yet, and higher; 


His mercy I adore. 


Up many a mossy, stony steep. 


Who out of darkness brought forth light!" 


Through many a flock of mountain sheep, 


And thus she wept no more. 


By the hill-tarns so dark and deep. 




As if she could not tire. 


But ever of the Saviour taught; 




How he came down to win, 


Onward and upward still she went 


With love, and suffering manifold, 


Among the breezy hills. 


The sinneT from his sin. 


Singing for very joyfulness 




Unto the singing rills. 


How, not to kings and mighty men 


■" 


He came, nor to the wise. 


The days of her captivity. 


But to the thief and murderer. 


The days of fear and pain. 


And those whom men despise. 


Were past, and now through shade and shine, 




She wandered free again. 


And how, throughout the host of heaven 




Goes yet a louder praise 


Free, like the breezes of the hill, 


O'er one poor sinner who doth turn 


Free, like the waters wild ; 


From his unrighteous ways, 


And in her fullness of delight, . 


Than o'er a hundred godly men, 


Unceasingly from height to height 


Who sin not all their days. 


Went on the blessed child. 


Thus with the felons she abode, 


And ever when she needed food, 


And that barred prison rude 


Some wanderer of the hill 


Was as if angels dwelt therein, 


Drew forth the morsel from his scrip. 


And not fierce men of blood ; 


And bade her eat her fill. 


For God had her captivity 




Turned into means of good. 


For He who fed by Cherith-brook 




The prophet in his need. 
Of this his wandering little one 
Unceasingly had heed. 


Now all this while sweet Marien's friends, 
Who in the town remained. 


Of her took painful thought, resolved 




Her freedom should be gained. 


And ever when she needed rest, 


And at the last they compassed it, 
With labour long and great; 


Some little cove she found. 
So green, so sheltered, and so still. 


And through the night they hurried her 
Unto the city-gate. 


Upon the bosom of the hill, 
As angels girt it round. 


There many a mother stood, and child. 


Thus hidden 'mong the quiet hills 


Weeping with friendly woe. 


Alone, yet wanting nought, 


Thus, thus to meet, as 'twere from death, 


She dwelt secure, until her foes 


And then to bid her go. 


For her no longer sought. 


To bid her go, whom so they loved. 


Then forth she journeyed. Soon the hills 


Nor once more see her face ; 


Were of more smooth descent; j 


To bid her go ; to speed her forth 


And downward now, and onward still. 


To some more friendly place. 


Toward the sea she went. 



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HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



87 



Toward the great sea for many days ; 

And now she heard its roar; 
Had sunlit glimpses of it now, 

And now she trod the shore. 

A rugged shore of broken clifls, 
And barren wave-washed sand, 

Where only the dry sea- wheat grew 
By patches on the strand. 

A weary way walked Marien 

Beside the booming sea, 
Nor boat, nor hut, nor fisherman 

Throughout the day saw she. 

A weary, solitary way ; 

And as the day declined 
Over the dark and troubled sea 

Arose a stormy wind. 

The heavy waves came roaring in 
With the strong coming tide ; 

The rain poured down, aud deep dark night 
Closed in on every side. 

There stood the homeless Marien 

With bare, unsandaled feet ; 
And on her form, with pitiless force. 

The raging tempest beat. 

Clasping her hands, she stood forlorn, 

"In tempest, and in night." 
She cried, " Oh Lord, I trust in thee. 

And thou wilt lead me right!" 

Now underneath a shelving bank 
Of sea-driven sand, there stood 

A miserable hut, the home 
Of a poor fisher good. 

Whose loving wife but yesternight 

Died in his arms, and he, 
Since that day's noon, alone had been 

Casting his nets at sea. 

At noon he kissed his little ones, 
And would be back, he said. 

Long ere night closed ; but with the night 
Arose that tempest dread. 

It was an old and crazy boat, 

Wherein the man was set. 
And soon 'twas laden heavily 

With many a laden net. 

" Oh sorrow, sorrow !" groaned he forth, 

As rose the sudden squall. 
Thinking upon the mother dead, 

And on his children small. 

"Oh sorrow, sorrow!" loud he cried, 
As the helm flew from his hand. 

And he knew the boat was sinking 
But half a league from land. 

" Oh sorrow, sorrow !" as he sank 
■ Was still his wailing cry ; 
And Marien heard amid the stortn, 
That voice of misery. 
9 N 



Now all this while the children small 

Kept in their dreary place. 
Troubled and sad, and half afear'd 

Of their dead mother's face. 

And when, to while the time, they played 

With shells beside the door. 
They found they had not hearts for mirth, 

And so they played no more. 

Yet keeping up with forced content 
Their hearts as best they might, 

Still wishing afternoon were gone. 
And it was only night. 

But when, hour after hour went on, 

.\nd the night tempest black 
Raged o'er the stormy sea, and still 

The father came not back ; 
It would have touched a heart of stone 

To see their looks of fear — 
So young and so forlorn; — their words 

Of counsel small to hear. 
And now they shouted through the storm ; 

And then with better wit. 
As they had seen their mother do, 

A fire of wood they lit. 
That he might see the hght afar 

And steer his boat by it. 

Unto this light came Marien ; 

And ere her weary feet 
Had reached the floor, the children ran 

With eager arms to meet 
Their loving father, as they thought, 

And give him welcome sweet. 

Alas ! the father even then 

Had run his mortal race ; 
But God had sent his Comforter 

To fill his earthly place. 



PART IX. 

Woe 's me, what secret tears are shed. 
What wounded spirits bleed ; 

What loving hearts are sundered, 
And yet man takes no heed ! 

He goeth on his daily course, 
Made fat with oil and wine. 

And pitieth not the weary souls 
That in his bondage pine ; 

That turn for him the mazy wheel ; 
That delve for him the mine. 

And pitieth not the children small. 

In noisy factories dim. 
That all day long, lean, pale, and faint. 

Do heavy tasks for him ! 

To him they are but as the stones 

Beneath his feet that lie: 
It entereth not his thoughts that they 

From him claim sympathy. 

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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It entereth not his thoughts that God 

Heareth the sufferer's groan, 
That in his righteous eye, their hfe 

Is precious as his own. 

This moves him not. But let us now 

Unto the fisher's shed, 
Where sat his weeping Utile ones 

Three days beside the dead. 

It was a solitary waste 

Of barren sand, wliich bore 
No sign of human dwelling-place 

For miles along the shore. 

Yet to the scattered dwellers there 

Sped Marien, and besought 
That of the living and the dead 

They would take Christian thought. 

So in the churchyard by the sea. 

The senseless dead was laid : 
" And now what will become of us !" 

The weeping children said. 

" For who will give us bread to eat ? 

The neighbours are so poor ! 
And he, our kinsman in the town, 

Would drive us from his door. 

"For he is rich and pitiless. 

With heart as cold as stone ! 
Who will be parents to us now 

That ours are dead and gone ?" 

" Weep not," said faithful Marien, 
"Man's heart is not so hard, 
But it your friendless misery 
Will tenderly regard ! 

" And I with you will still abide 
Your friendless souls to cheer, 

Be father and mother both to you ; 
l"or this God sent me here. 

" And to your kinsman in the town. 

Who hath such store of gold, 
I will convey you : God can change 

His spirit stern and cold. 

" And ye, like angels of sweet love, 
From earth his soul may win. 

Fear not ; and we with morning light 
The journey will begin." 

They took their little worldly store ; 

And at the break of day. 
Leaving the lonesome sea-side shed, 

Set out upon their way. 

'Mong sandy hills their way they wound ; 

O'er sea-grass dusk and harsh ; 
By many a land-mark lone and still ; 

Through many a salt sea-marsh. 

And thus for twice seven days they went 

A litlle loving band. 
Walking along their weary way ; 

Like angels, hand in hand. 



And everywhere kind Christian folks 

They found, as Alarien said. 
Who gave them lodging for the night, 

And gave them daily bread. 

And thus they pilgrimed, day by day, 

Alone yet not cast down. 
Strengthened by Marien's company, 

Unto the sea-port town. 

A busy town beside the sea, 

Where men were all astir, 
Buying and selling ; eager-eyed. 
Two different races, yet allied, — 

Merchant and mariner. 

A place of ships, whose name was known 

Far off, beyond the main ; 
A busy place of trade, where nought 

Was in repute but gain. 

Thither they came, those children poor, 

About the eventide; 
And where dwelt he, their kinsman rich. 

They asked on every side. 

After long asking, one they found, 

An old man and a poor. 
Who undertook to lead them straight 

Unto the kinsman's door. 

But ever as he went along 

He to himself did say, 
Low broken sentences, as thus, 

" Their kinsman ! — well-a-way !" 

All through a labyrinth of walls 

Blackened with cloudy smoke. 
He led them, where was heard the forge 

And the strong hammer's stroke. 

And beneath lofty windows dim 

In many a doleful row, 
Whence came the jangle of quick looms, 

Down to the courts' below. 

Still on the children, terrified. 
With wildered spirits passed ; 

Until of these great mammon halls. 
They reached the heart at last, — 

A little chamber hot and dim, 
With iron bars made fast. 

There sate the kinsman, shrunk and lean, 

And leaden-eyed and old. 
Busied before a lighted lamp 

In sealing bags of gold. 

The moment that they entered in, 

He clutched with pallid fear 
His heavy bags, as if he thought 

That sudden thieves were near. 

" Rich man!" said Marien, "ope thy bags 

And of thy gold be free. 
Make gladsome cheer, for Heaven hath sent 

A blessing unto thee !" 
" What I" said the miser, " is there news 

Of my lost argosy ?" 



HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



89 



" Better than gold, or merchant-ships, 

Is that which thou shalt win," 
Said Marien, " thine immortal soul 

From its black load of sin." 

" Look at these children, thine own blood," 

And then their name she told ; 
" Open thine heart to do them good, 

To love them more than gold ; — 
And what thou givest will come back 

To thee, a thousand-fold !" 

" Ah," said the raiser, " even these 

Some gainful work may do, 
My looms stand still ; of youthful hands 

I have not half enow ; 
I shall have profit in their toil ; 

Yes, child, thy words are true !" 

" Thou fool !" said Marien, " still for gain. 

To cast thy soul away! 
The Lord be judge 'twixt these and thee 

Upon his reckoning day! 

"These little ones are fatherless, — 

He sees them day and night; 
And as thou doest unto them. 

On thee he will requite !" 

"Gave I not alms upon a time?" 

Said he, with anger thrilled ; 
" And when I die, give I not gold, 

A stately church to build ? 

" What wouldst thou more ? ray flesh and blood 

I seek not to gainsay. 
But what I give, is it unmeet 

Their labour should repay!" 

So saying, in an iron chest, 

He locked his bags of gold. 
And bade the children follow him, 

In accents harsh and cold. 



PART X. 



" Oh leave us not sweet Marien !" 

The little children spake ; 

For if thou leave us here, alone. 

Our wretched hearts will break." 

She left them not — kind Marien ! 

And in a noisome room, 
Day after day, week after week, 

They laboured at the loom. 

The while they thought with longing souls 

Upon the breezy strand, 
The flying shuttles, to and fro, 

Passed through each little hand. 

The while they thought with aching hearts, 

Upon their parents dear. 
The growing web was watered, 

With many a bitter tear. 



And the sweet memory of the past, — 
The white sands stretching wide ; 

Their father's boat wherein they played. 
Upon the rocking tide ; 

The sandy shells; the sea-mew's scream ; 

The ocean's ceaseless boom ; 
Came to them like a troubling dream, 

Within the noisy loom. 

Wo-worth those children, hard bested, 

A weary life they knew ; 
Their hands were thin ; their cheeks were pal 

That were of rosy hue. 

The miser kinsman in and out 

Passed ever and anon ; 
Nor ever did he speak a word, 

Except to urge them on. 

Wo-worth those children, hard bested, 
They worked the livelong day ; 

Nor was there one, save Marien, 
A soothing word to say : — 

So, amid toil and pain of heart. 
The long months wore away. 

The long, the weary months passed on. 

And the hard kinsman told 
Over his profits; every loom 

Increased the hoard of gold ; 
"'Tis well !" said he, " let more be spun 

That more may yet be sold !" 

So passed the lime ; and with the toil 

Of children weak and poor. 
The sordid kinsman's treasure-hoards 

Increased more and more. 

But ere a year was come and gone, 

The spirit of the boy 
Was changed ; with natures fierce and rudo 

He found his chiefest joy. 

The hardness of the kinsman's soul 

Wrought on him like a spell, 
Exciting in his outraged heart, 

Revenge and hatred fell ; 
The will impatient to control; 

The spirit to rebel. 

Hence was there warfare 'twixt the two. 
The weak against the strong; — 

A hopeless, miserable strife 
That could not last for long : 

How can the young, the poor, contend 
Against the rich man's wrong! 

The tender trouble of his eye. 
Was gone ; his brow was cold ; 

His speech, like that of desperate men. 
Was reckless, fierce, and bold. 

No more he kissed his sister's cheek; 

Nor soothed her as she wept ; 
No more he said at Marien's knee 

His prayers before he slept. 

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But they, the solitary pair, 

Like pitying angels poured 
Tears for the sinner ; and with groans 

His evil life deplored. 

Man knew not of that secret grief. 

Which in their bosoms lay ; 
And for the sinful brother's sin, 

Yet harder doom had they. 

But God, who trieth hearts ; who knows 

The springs of human will ; 
Who is a juster judge than man, 

Of mortal good and ill ; 

He saw those poor despised ones. 

And willed them still to mourn : 
He saw the wandering prodigal, 

Yet bade him not return. 

In his good time that weak one's woe, 

Would do its work of grace ; 
And the poor prodigal, himself. 

Would seek the father's face ; — 
Meantime man's judgment censured them, 

As abject, mean, and base. 

The erring brother was away, 

And none could tell his fate ; 
And the young sister at the loom 

Sate drooping, desolate. 

She mourned not for her parents dead. 

Nor for the breezy shore : 
And now the weary, jangling loom 

Distracted her no more. 

Like one that worketh in a dream. 

So worked she day by day, 
Intent upon the loving grief. 

Which on her spirit lay ; 
And as she worked, and as she grieved 

Her young hfe wore away. 

And they vi-ho saw her come and go. 

Oft said, with pitying tongue, 
" Alas, that labour is the doom 

Of aught so weak and young !" 

Alone the kinsman pitied not ; 

He chid her, that no more 
The frame was strong, the hand was swift, 

As it had been before. 

— All for the child was dark on earth, 

When holy angels bright 
Unbarred the golden gates of heaven 

For her one winter's night. 

Within a chamber poor and low, 

Upon a pallet bed, 
She lay, and " hold my hand, sweet friend," 

With feeble voice she said. 

" Oh hold my hand, sweet Marien," 

The dying child spake low; 
" And let me hear thy blessed voice, 

To cheer me as I go ! 



" 'Tis darksome all — Oh, drearly dark ! 

When will this gloom pass by ? 
Is there no comfort for the poor. 

And for the young who die !" 

Down by her side knelt Marien, 

And kissed her fading cheek, 
Then of the loving Saviour, 

In low tones 'gan to speak. 

She told of Lazarus, how he lay, 

A beggar mean and poor. 
And died, in misery and want, 

Beside the rich man's door. 
Yet how the blessed angels came, 

To bear his soul on high. 
Within the glorious courts of heaven, 

On Abraham's breast to lie. 

She told how children, when they die, 

Yet higher glory win, 
And see the Father face to face, 

Unsoiled by tainting sin. 

" Blessed be God '." the child began, 

',' I doubt not, neither fear. 
All round about the bed, behold, 

The angel-bands appear! 

"I go! — yet still, dear Marien, 
One last boon let me win ! — 

Seek out the poor lost prodigal, 
And bring him back from sin! 

"I go ! I go !" and angels bright. 

The spirit bare away : — 
On earth 'twas darksome, dreary night, 

In heaven 'twas endless day ! 

— And now, upon that selfsame night. 
Within a carved bed, 

Lay the rich kinsman wrapped in lawn. 
With pillows 'neath his head. 

Scheming deep schemes of gold, he lay 

All in that lordly room; 
Blessing himself that he had stores 

For many years to come. 

Just then an awful form spake low, 
A form that none might see : 

" Thou fool, this very night, thy soul 
Shall be required of thee !" 

And when into that chamber fair 

Stole in the morning-ray, 
A lifeless corpse, upon his bed, 

The miser kinsman lay. 

— Beside his door stood solemn mutes; 
And chambers high and dim. 

Where hung was pall, and mourning lights 
Made show of grief for him. 

Full fifty muffled mourners stood. 
Around the scutcheoned bed, 

That held the corse, as if, indeed, 
A righteous man were dead. 
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91 



Within a tomb, which he had built, 

Of costly marble-stone, 
They buried him, and plates of brass 

His name and wealth made known. 

A coffin of the meanest wood, 
The little child received ; 

And o'er her humble, nameless grave, 
No hooded mourner grieved. 

Only kind Marien wept such tears. 
As the dear Saviour shed. 

When in the house of Bethany 
He mourned for Lazarus dead. 



PART XL 



Now from the raiser kinsman's house 

Came many a jovial sound ; 
And lavish heirs had spent his gold. 

Ere twelve months had gone round. 

That while within the busy town 
Dwelt Marien ; and each day. 

In some good deed of Christian love 
And mercy, passed away. 

For many an abject dweller there. 
Grief-bowed and labour-spent. 

Groaned forth, amid his little ones. 
To heaven his sad lament; 

And unto such, to raise, to cheer. 
The sent of God, she went. 

But she who, even as they, was poor. 

Failed not of daily bread ; 
A stranger, many took her in. 

And warmed, and clothed, and fed. 

And when a sickness sore befel. 

And nigh to death she lay. 
Kind hearts there were who came to her. 

And watched her night and day. 

And afterwards, when evil men 
Doomed her in bonds to lio. 

Many a true, noble friend arose, 
Willing for her to die. 

Oh, blessed Christian hearts, who thus 

Unto this little one 
Did deeds of love ; for as to Christ 

These righteous works were done! 
And they who blessed her, for themselves 

A tenfold blessing won! 

Thus dwelt sweet Marien in the town 

For many a passing year ; 
Yet of the poor, lost prodigal, 

No tidings could she hear. 

She found him not ; but yet she found 

Others who, even as he. 
Had gone astray and pined forlorn 

In hopeless misery. 
9* 



To these repentant, outcast ones. 
She spake kind words of grace. 

And led them back, with yearning hearts, 
To seek the Father's face ; 

To find forgiveness in His heart, 
And love iu His embrace. 

Oh blessed, blessed Marien! 

— But let us now recall 
Whate'er had happed of change and woe 

Unto the prodigal. 

He saw his little sister pine; 

He saw her silent woe ; 
He saw her strength decline, yet still 

Her weary labour grow. 

As this he savv, yet more and more 

He hated that hard man. 
With whom their cheerless misery, 

Their daily tasks began. 

And even to true Marien, 
He bare an altered mind; — 

Alas, that injuries should make 
Else loving hearts unkind! 

But so it is ! and when the twain 

To cheer his spirit strove. 
His wrath arose, and he repelled 

Their patient deeds of love. 

Then evil men assailed his youth ; 

And he who was so frail 
In suffering, 'gainst the tempter's might 

Was feeble to prevail. 

He was their easy prey ; their tool ; 

And bravely clothed and fed. 
In desperate scenes, 'mid desperate men, 

A lawless life he led. 

Yet often to his soul came back 
Sweet memory of the time. 

When he, a happy, thoughtless child, 
Had knowledge of no crime. 

And like a heavier, wearier woe. 
Than labour night and day, 

The consciousness of evil deeds 
Upon his spirit lay. 

He thought of slighted Marien, 

And of the sister meek ; 
Of the thin hands that plied the loom, 

And of the fading cheek ; 
Yet how he had de.serled them. 

The faithful and the weak! 

He heard his loving parent's voice 
Reproach him in his steep; 

And conscience, that stern bosom-guest. 
Ceaseless upbraidings keep. 

Yet, for the hated kinsman's sake, 

Neither would he regard ; 
And, because man was hard to him. 

Made his own nature hard. 

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Thus doing outrage to his soul, 

By chance he went one day 
Through the brown trodden churchyard, where 

The little sister lay. 

A sexton there at work he found ; 

And why he turned the mould 
So carefully, he asked, since there 

No name the tenant told. 

Replied he, " in this wide church-yard 

I know each separate mound ; 
Yet unto me that little grave 

Alone seems holy ground." 

And then he told of Marien, 

And how she there had wept 
Over the child, that 'neath the mould. 

In dreamless quiet slept. 

"A little, friendless pauper child, 

She lieth here," said he; 
" Yet not a grave in all the ground 

Like this affecteth me !" 

Saying this, he wiped a tear aside, 

And turned from the place ; 
And, in the skirts of his rich robe, 

The brother hid his face. 

— He left the town ; and in a ship, 

Bound for a far-off strand. 
He took his voyage ; but distress 

Pursued her from the land. 

At first disease was 'mong her men; 

And suffering long and sore. 
In midst of joyless, suffering mates. 

Forlorn and sad he bore. 

Next mutiny brake forth ; and then 

That miserable ship, 
As if there were no port for her. 
Without a wind the sails to stir. 

Lay moveless on the deep. 

As Jonah, fleeing from the Lord, 

The soul-struck penitent 
Lay self-condemned, believing all 

On his account were sent. 

Anon a tempest rose, and drove 

The ship before the gale. 
For three long days ; and bore away 

Iler rudder, mast, and sail. 

On the fourth night dark land appeared. 

And the strained vessel bore 
Right on the rocky reef and lay 

A wreck upon the shore. 

At day-break only he remained 

To note the vessel's fate; — 
The Crusoe of a desert isle. 

Abject and desolate. 

•—The world went on as it was wont ; 

And in the city street. 
And in the busy market-place, 

Did thronging thousands meet. 



LTpon the hearths of poor men's homes 
Good neighbours met at night; 

And kindness and companionship 
Made woe and labour light. 

The loneliest hut among the hills 
To human hearts was known; 

And even in kingly palaces 
Men might not dwell alone. 

The world went on as it was wont; 

And no man knew the while 
Of that poor lonely prodigal. 

Upon his lonely isle. 

He clomb the cliffs to look afar 

Over the distant sea; 
If, please God, for his rescuing 

A coming sail might be. 

He lit his beacon fires at night ; 

He hoisted signals high; — 
But the world went on as it was wont. 

And not a ship sailed by. 

He was not missed among his kind, — 

Man had forgot his name; 
But unto Him who cares for all, 
Who sees the little sparrow fall. 

His lonely misery came. 

God saw him ; saw his broken heart. 

His cheerless solitude. 
Saw how his human pride was gone. 

His human will subdued. 

Saw him and loved him. Broken heart, 
Look up ! the Father's voice 

Calleth thee from thy depths of woe. 
And biddeth thee rejoice! 

— Now Marien from the trading town 
Had voyaged ; sent of Heaven 

She knew not whither ; and the ship. 
Which with long storm had striven. 

At length upon a glorious isle 
Amid the seas was driven ; 

Where dwelt a gentle race at rest 

Amid their flowery wilds, 
Unknown to all the world, with hearts 

As simple as a child's. 

With them abode sweet Marien: 
But now it chanced one day. 

As in a slender carved boat 
Upon the shore she lay, 

A strong wind came, and filled the sail. 
And bare her thence away. 

She had no fear, true Marien ; — 
That God was good, she knew. 

And even then had sent her forth 
Some work of love to do. 

The prodigal upon his rock 
Was kneeling, and his prayer 

For confidence in heaven, arose 
Upon the evening air, 

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93 



Just as the little boat approached 
The island bleak and bare. 

The boat ran up a creek, as if, 

'Twere steered by angels good ; 
And ere the evening prayer was done 

Beside the youth she stood. 

The chiefest joy it hath not words 

Its deep excess to say; 
And as if he had seen a sprite, 

His spirit died away. 

Then with clasped hands, and broken speech. 
And tears that ceaseless flowed ; 

He poured forth from his full heart 
A fervent praise of God. 



PART XII. 



" But let us hence," said Marien ; 

And with the earliest morn, 
Within the slender carved boat, 

They left the isle forlorn. 

A light breeze from the desert shore 

Over the waters blew. 
And the little boat sailed on before. 

Till the isle was out of view. 

As friends long parted, met once more. 
They sat ; and of times gone, 

And of the blessed dead conversed, 
As the slender boat sailed on. 

And as they sailed, sweet Marien 

Over the Gospel bent, 
And read of joy that is in heaven 

O'er sinners that repent ; 

And of the weary prodigal 
Returning bowed with shame, 

And the good father hastening forth 
To meet him as he came ; 

And how he bade the fairest robe 
Be brought ; the golden ring ; 

Shoes for the feel ; and music sweet. 
As if to hail a king. 

" For this, my son," said he, " was dead, 

And is alive; is found. 
Who was long lost ; 'tis meet, therefore. 

That stintless joy abound I" 

"Oh, child of woe," said Marien, 

" Look up, for thou art he ; 
And round about the Father's throne 

Many rejoice for thee !" 

"Oh Lord, I bless thee," said the youth, 

" That of thy mercy great. 
Thou hast vouchsafed to rescue me 

From my forlorn estate ! 
And henceforth, to thy work of love 

Myself I dedicate '. 



"The meanest of thy creatures, low 

I bend before thy throne, 
And offer my poor self to make 

Thy loving-kindness known ! 

" Oh father, give me words of power. 

The stony hearts to move ; 
Give me prevaihng eloquence. 

To publish forth thy love I 

" Thy love which wearieth not ; which like 

Thy sun, on all doth shine ! 
Oh Father, let me worship Thee 
Through life, by gladly serving Thee ! 
I love not life ; I ask not wealth ; 
My heart and soul, my youth and health, 

My life, oh Lord, are thine I" 

So spake the youth ; but now the boat 

The glorious island neared. 
Which, like a cloudland realm of bliss. 

Above the sea appeared. 

Skyward rose sunny peaks, pale-hued, 

As if of opal glow ; 
And crested palms, broad-leaved and tall. 

In valleys grew below. 

A lovely land of flowers, as fair 

As Paradise, ere sin 
And sorrow, that corrupting pair, 

With death had entered in. 

A lovely land ! — " And even now," 
Cried Marien, "see they come. 

Children of love, my brother, now 
To bid thee welcome home! 

" For these, God kept thee in the wild. 

From sinful men apart ; 
For these, his people, through distress 

Made pure thy trusting heart I 

" Thy work is here ! Go forth, 'mid these 

Meek children of the sun, 
Oh servant of the Lord, and tell 

What He for thee hath done !" 

Down to the shore the thousands came, 

A joyous, peaceful host. 
To welcome Marien back, whom they 

Had sorrowed for as lost. 

" .\nd welcome to thee, little child !" 
They sang forth sweet and clear ; 

"And welcome to the stranger poor, 
Who Cometh with thee here I" 

And then they brought him silken cloih, 

Since he was meanly drest; 
And juicy, raeUovv fruits to eat, 
And perfumed waters for his feet. 

And mats whereon to rest. 

And ever as they served him. 
They sang forth sweet and low, 

" Would this repose might solace thee, 
These apples cure thy woe I" 

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And though the twain knew not their speech, 

Yet well they understood 
The looks of love that welcomed them, 

Their actions kind and good. 

With them for many a year abode 
The youth, and learned their tongue ; 

And with the sound of Christian praise 
The hills and valleys rung. 

Oh beautiful beyond all lands 

That lay beneath the moon, 
Was that fair isle of Christian love 

Of Christian virtues boon. 

A joyful people there they dwelt, 

Unsuffering from their birth; 
Of simplest life ; benignly wise ; 

As angels on the earth. 

And with them dwelt the holy youth, 
Their chief, their priest, their friend. 

Beloved and loving, for their sakes 
Willing himself to spend. 

Like to some ancient church of Christ, 

From worluly taint kept free, 
Lay this delicious isle of love 

Amid its summer sea. 

But now the work he had to do 

Was done ; and ere his day 
Approached its noon, his strength, his life. 

Was wearing fast away. 

They saw his cheek grow thin and pale ; 

His loving eye grow dim; 
And with surpassing tenderness 

They sorrowed over him. 

Old men, and youths, and women meek. 
And children wild and young. 

Followed his steps with watchful care. 
And weeping round him hung. 

In flowery thickets of the hills 

Sad mourners knelt in prayer. 
That God this servant so revered, 

This friend beloved would spare. 

And round about his feet they sat. 

Observant, meek, and still, 
To gather up his latest words. 

To do his slightest will. 

Now all this while good Marien 

Had wandered far and wide. 
Through divers realms, for many a year, 

The hand of Heaven her guide. 

And now unto the glorious isle 

She came ; but on the shore 
She saw no wandering company. 

As she had seen belbre. 

'T was Sabbath eve, and o'er the isle 

A solemn stillness lay ; 
A stillness, how unlike the calm 

Of many a Sabbath day ! 



A hush, as of suspended breath. 

Ere some great grief began ; 
For the mournful people silently 

Stood round the dying man. 

Through the still vales went Marien, 
And came at length to where, 

'Mid flowering trees, knelt many a one 
In agony of prayer. 

Onward she went, not many steps, 
With heart of mournful ruth, 

When, like a dying angel laid. 
She saw the holy youth. 

With closed eyes and pallid lips 

He lay, as one whose life 
Meeteth with death, yet waiteth still 

The last conflicting. strife. 

Beside him knelt she on the turf. 

And spoke in accents low 
Words of strong love, which like new life 

Seemed through the frame to go. 

He raised himself, and blessing God, 

That He of him had care. 
And now in his dark trial-hour, 

Had sent his angel there ; 

With low-toned voice, more musical 
Than softest lute could make, 

Looking upon his weeping friends 
With fervent love, he spake. 

"Oh friends, beloved friends! weep not, 

Nor be oppressed with woe ; 
'Tis of His will, who doeth right. 

That I am called to go! 

" Fain would I tarry, but the cry 

Hath sounded in mine ear, 
' Haste to depart, the Lord hath need 

Of thee no longer here !' 

" Even like the Master whom I serve, 

I pray ye not to grieve ; 
But as ye have believed in me, 

AJso in Him believe! 

" I go, but leave you not forlorn. 
As sheep without a guide ; — 

For Christ the unfailing Comforter 
Shall still with you abide! 

" Oh weep not, friends ; a better home 

Awaits me, and I go. 
But to that home which is prepared 

For ye who love me so! 
Farewell, farewell! Unto my God, 

And unto yours, I go!" 

The Sabbath sun went down amid 

A golden, cloudless sky ; 
And the freed spirit, cleansed from sin, 

Arose to God on high. 

Beneath the trees where he had died. 

They buried him, and there 
Enwove the flowery boughs to form 

A quiet house of prayer. 

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95 



Long time with them dwelt Marien, 

Until she was sent forth, 
At the Lord's bidding to perform 

New service on the earth. 

Good speed to thee, thou blessed child, 

May angels guide thy bark, 
'Mid slumbrous calm, 'mid tempests wild. 

And o'er the waters dark! 

Good speed to thee, thou blessed child — 

The angel of the poor — 
And win from sorrow and from sin 

The world from shore to shore ! 



OLD CHRISTMAS, 



Now he who knows old Christmas, 
He knows a carle of worth ; 

For he is as good a fellow. 
As any upon the earth ! 

He comes warm cloaked and coated, 
And buttoned up to the chin, 

And soon as he comes a-nigh the door. 
We open and let him in. 

We know that he will not fail us, 
So we sweep the hearth up clean; 

We set him the old armed chair, 
And a cushion whereon to lean. 

And with sprigs of holly and ivy 
We make the house look gay. 

Just out of an old regard to him, — 
For it was his ancient way. 

We broach the strong ale barrel, 
And bring out wine and meat ; 

And thus have all things ready. 
Our dear old friend to greet. 

And soon as the time wears round. 
The good old carle we see, 

Coming a-near ; — for a creditor 
Less punctual is than he ! 

He comes with a cordial voice 
That does one good to hear ; 

He shakes one heartily by the hand. 
As he hath done many a year. 

And after the little children 
He asks in a cheerful tone. 

Jack, Kate, and little Annie, — 
He remembers them every one ! 

What a fine old fellow he is. 
With his faculties all as clear, 

And his heart as warm and light 
As a man's in his fortieth year ! 

What a fine old fellow, in froth ! 

Not one of your griping elves. 
Who, with plenty of ihoney to spare, 

Think only about themselves ! 
O 



Not he ! for he loveth the children ; 

And holiday begs for all ; 
And comes with his pockets full of giHs, 

For the great ones and the small ! 

With a present for every servant ; — 
For in giving he doth not tire ; — 

From the red-liiced, jovial butler. 
To the girl by the kitchen-fire. 

And he tells us witty old stories ; 

And singeth with might and main ; 
And we talk of the old man's visit 

Till the day that he comes again ! 

Oh he is a kind old fellow, 
For though that beef be dear, 

He giveth the parish paupers 
A good dinner once a year! 

And all the workhouse children 
He sets them down in a row. 

And giveth them rare plum-pudding, 
And two-pence a-piece also. 

Oh, could you have seen those paupers. 
Have heard those children young, 

You would wish with them that Christmas 
Came oft and tarried long! 

He must be a rich old fellow, — 
What money he gives away! 

There is not a lord in England 
Could equal him any day! 

Good luck unto old Christmas, 

And long life, let us sing, 
For he doth more good unto the poor 

Than many a crowned lung ! 



THE TWELFTH HOUR. 



My friends, the spirit is at peace ; 

Oh do not trouble me with tears ; 
Petition rather my release, 

Nor covet for me length of years. 
Which are but weariness and woe; 
Resign me, friends, before I go ! 

I know how strong are human ties ; 

I know how strong is human fear ; 
But visions open to mine eyes, 

And words of power are in mine ear; 
My friends, my friends, can ye not see, 
Nor hear what voices speak to me ? 

"Thou human soul," they seem to say, 
" We are commissioned from above, 

Through the dark portal to convey 
Thee to the paradise of love ; 

Thou need'st not shrink, thou need'st not fear; 

We, thy sure help, are gathered near! 
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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Thy weakness on our strength confide ; 

Thy doubt upon our steadfast trust,- 
And rise up, pure and glorified, 

From thine infirm and sinful dust. 
Rise up, rise up! the eternal day 
Begins to dawn — why wilt thou stay ? 

" Look forth — the day begins to dawn ; 

The future openeth to thy view ; 
The veil of mystery is undrawn ; 

The old things are becoming new; 
The night of time is passing by : 
Poor trembler, do not fear to die ! 

" Come, come ! the gates of pearl unfold : 
The eternal glory sliines on thee ! 

Body, relax thy lingering hold. 

And set the struggling spirit free!" 

'Tis done, 'tis done! — before my sight 

Opens the awfid infinite; 

I see, I hear, I live anew! 

Oh friends, dear friends, — adieu, adieu! 



THE BLIND BOY AND HIS SISTER. 



"Oh brother," said fair Annie, 

To the blind boy at her side ; 

"Would thou could'st see the sunshine lie 

On hill and valley, and the sky 

Hung like a glorious canopy 

O'er all things far and wide ! 

" Would thou could'st see the waters 

In many a distant glen ; 
The mountain flocks that gaze around ; 
Nay, even this patch of stony ground, 
These crags, with silver lichen crowned, 

I would that thou could'st ken! 

"Would thou could'st see my face, brother. 

As well as I see thine; 
For always what I cannot see 
It is but half a joy to me. 
Brother, I often weep for thee. 

Yet thou dost ne'er repine !" 

"And why should I repine, Annie?" 
Said the blind boy with a smile; 

"I ken the blue sky and the grey; 

The sunny and the misty day; 

The moorland valley stretched away 
For many and many a mile ! 

" I ken the night and day, Annie, 

For all ye may believe ; 
And oflen in my spirit lies 
A clear light as of mid-day skies; 
And splendours on my vision rise. 

Like gorgeous hues of eve. 
" I sit upon the stone, Annie, 

Beside our cottage door, 
And people say, ' that boy is blind,* 
And pity me, although I find 



A world of beauty in my mind, 
A never-ceasing store. 

" I hear you talk of mountains, 

The beautiful, the grand ; 
Of splintered peaks so grey and tall ; 
Of lake, and glen, and waterfall ; 
Of flowers and trees ; — I ken them all ; - 

Their difTerence understand. 

"The harebell and the gowan 

Are not alike to me. 
Are diflferent as the herd and flock, 
The blasted pine-tree of the rock. 
The waving birch, the broad, green oak, 

The river and the sea. 

" And oh, the heavenly music, 

That as I sit alone, 
Comes to mine inward sense as clear 
As if the angel voices were 
Singing to harp and dulcimer 

Before the mighty Throne I 

" It is not as of outward sound, 
Of breeze, or singing bird ; 

But wondrous melody refined ; 

A gift of God unto the blind ; 

An inward harmony of mind, 
By inward senses heard ! 

" And all the old-world stories 

That neighbours tell o' nights ; 
Of fairies on the fairy mound. 
Of brownies dwelling under ground. 
Of elves careering round and round. 
Of fays and water-sprites ; 

" All this to me is pleasantness, — 

Is all a merry show ; 
I see the antic people play, — 
Brownie and kelpie, elf and fay. 
In a sweet country far away. 

Yet where I seem to go. 

" But better far than this, Annie, 
Is when thou read'st to me 

Of the dear Saviour meek and kind. 

And how he healed the lame and blind. 

Am I not healed ? — for in my mind 
His blessed form I see ! 

" Oh, love is not of sight, Annie, 

Is not of outward things ; 
For, in my inmost soul I know. 
His pity for all mortal woe; 
His words of love, spoke long ago. 

Unseal its deepest springs ! 

" Then do not mourn for me, Annie, 
Because that I am blind; — 

The beauty of all outward sight; 

The wondrous shows of day and night ; 

All love, all faith, and all delight. 
Are strong in heart and mind!" 
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HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 





What of this ? our blessed Lord 


THE SPIRIT'S QUESTIONINGS. 


Loved such as we; — 




How he blessed the little ones 




Sitting on his knee ! 




Where shall I meet thee, 


^ 


Thou beautiful one? 




Where shall I find thee, 


A DREAM. 


For aye who art gone ? 
What is the shape 




Hoar with the lapse of ages seemed 


To thy clear spirit given ? 


The silent land toward which I drew ; 


Where is thy home 


And yet within myself I deemed 


In the infinite heaven ? 


The dwellers in that land were few. 


I see thee, but still 


A strong conviction seemed lo rest 
Upon my heart that I was then 


As thoa wert upon earth, 


In the sole poriion of the earth, 


In thy bodied delight, 


Since creation's perfect birth. 
Had held the sons of men ; 


In thy wonder and mirth! 


But now thou art one 


And I was on a marvelling quest 


Of the glorified band 


Of that small colony of the blest. 


Who have touched the shore 




Of the far spirit-land ! 


How lone, how silent ! not a sound 


In earth or air, from wmd or flood ; 


And thy shape is fair. 


But o'er the bare and barren ground 


And thy locks are bright, 


Brooded an endless solitude. 


In the living stream 


It was an awful thing to tread 


Of the quenchless light. 


O'er grey and parched and mighty plains, 


And thy spirit's thought 


Where never living thing was seen. 


It is pure, and free 


Where the live heart had never been : 


From darkness and doubt 


The blood chilled in my veins, — 


And from mystery! 


Yet still I felt in spirit led 




Across that wilderness of dread. 


And thine ears have drunk 




The awful tone 


But lo ! that deadness of the world, 


Of the First and Last, 


Which seemed of an eternal power. 


Of the Ancient One ! 


Like a light vapour was unfurled, 


And the dwellers old 


And I walked over fern and flower ; 


Thy steps have met. 
Where the lost is found, 


Hills, robed in light celestial blue, 




Bounded that amplitude of plain ; 


And the past is yet. 


And round me there were lofty trees. 
Yet moveless, soundless to the breeze ; 


Where shall I find thee. 


And not a wild bird's strain. 


For aye who art gone ? 


Nor cry of beast, could still undo 


Where shall I meet thee. 


The spell which silence o'er me threw. 


Thou beautiful one ? 






But man was there. Not far aside. 




One I beheld who strongly toiled ; 


~ 


He seemed a youth of solemn pride. 




Of noble form, but dimmed and soiled 


THE POOR CHILD'S HYMN. 


With rural labour and wiih care, 




And he clove wood for sacrifice. 




I listened for his sounding siroke, 


We are poor and lowly born; 


There was no sound ; and now the smoke 


With the poor we bide; 


Did from the pile arise ; 


Labour is our heritage. 


And he gazed on it with an air 


Care and want beside. 


Less marked by pleasure than despair. 


What of this ? our blessed Lord 




Was of lowly birlh, 


But then a lovelier vision sprung 


And poor, toiling fishermen 


Before me ; and between the tall 


Were his friends on earth! 


And shadowy trees, a low cloud hung, 




So low, it scarcely hung at all ; 


We are ignorant and young; 


'Twas like no cloud which sails the sky; 


1 Simple children all; 


Around it all was clearly seen; 


Gifted with but humble powers. 


It mixed not with the ambient air; 


And of learning small. 


Rolled on itself compact and fair. 



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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It rested on the scene, 
More still and motionless than lie 
The clouds of summer in the sky. 

Beside it stood a hoary seer, 

And through my heart a whisper ran, 
" God, or his angel shrouded here 

Holds converse with this holy man." 
Dark was that cloudy dwelling-place ; 
No glory on it seemed to dwell ; 
Yet still on every thing around, 
On tree, on shrub, and heathy ground, 

A streaming radiance fell ; 
And on that patriarch's awful face 
Glowed with intense, unearthly grace. 

Propped on his staff] in peace he stood, 

Sandaled, and girded in his vest, 
And his full beard in silver flowed 

Far down his pure and quiet breast \ 
His eye was on the cloud, as one 

Who listens to momentous things, 
And seems with reverence to hear, 
Yet with more confidence than fear, 
What some great herald brings. 

But as I gazed, a little boat. 

Swift, without rudder, oars, or sail, 

Down through the ambient air afloat. 
Bore onward one who seemed to hail 

The patriarch, — and he turned his head ; 
He turned and saw a smiling boy, 

Smiling in beauty and in youth. 

With eyes in which eternal truth 
Lay with eternal joy. 

He touched that old man's snowy head, 

And boat, youth, cloud, and patriarch fled ! 

A multitude of dreams have passed 
Since this, and perished as they came ; 

But in my mind imprinted fast 
This lives, and still remains the same. 

The beauty of that gliding car; 

The mystery of the cloud and sage ; 

Those plains in arid drought so stern ; 

That solemn hush, that seemed etern; — 
In memory's living page. 

Still stand in light, more real far 

Than thousands of our day-dreams are ! 



THE BOY OF THE SOUTHERN ISLE. 

AN OLD SEAMAN'S STORY. 



PART I. 



I'll tell ye, if ye hearken now, 
A thing that chanced to me — 

It must be fifty years agone — 
Upon the southern sea. 



First-mate was I of the Nancy, 

A tight ship and a sound ; 
We had made a prosperous voyage. 

And then were homeward bound. 

We were sailing on the Tropic seas, 
Before the trade-wind's power ; 

Day after day, without delay. 
Full thirteen knots an hour. 

The sea was as a glassy lake. 
By a steady gale impressed ; 

There was nought for any man to do 
But just what liked him best. 

And yet the calm was wearisome ; 

The dull days idly sped ; 
And sometimes on a flute I played. 

Or else a book I read. 

And dallying thus one afternoon, 

I stood upon the deck ; 
When far ofl^ to the leeward, 

I saw a faintish speck. 

Whether 't was rock, or fish, or cloud. 

At first I did not know; 
So I called unto a seaman. 

That he might look also. 

And as it neared, I saw for sure 

That it must be a boat; 
But my fellow swore it was not so, 

But a large bamboo afloat. 

We called a third unto us then. 
That he the sight might see ; 

Then came a fourth, a fifth, a sixth, 
But no two could agree. 

" Nay, 't is a little boat," I said, 
"And it roweth with an oar!" 

But none of them could see it so. 
All differing as before. 

" It Cometh on ; I see it plain ; 

It is a boat!" I cried, 
"A little boat o'erlaid with pearl, 
And a little child to guide!" 

And sure enough, a boat it was. 

And worked with an oar; 
But such a boat as 't was, no man 

Had ever seen before. 

Within it sate a little child. 

The fairest e'er was seen ; 
His robes were like the amethyst, 

His mantle of sea-green. 

No covering wore he on his head, 
And the hair that on it grew 

Showered down in thick and wavy locks 
Of the sunniest golden hue. 

The rudest man on board our ship 
Blest God that sight to see ; 

For me I could do nought but weep. 
Such power had it on me. 

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HYMNS AND FIKE-SIDE VERSES. 



99 



There sat he in his pretty boat, 

Like an angel from the si<)', 
Regarding us in our great ship, 

With wonder in his eye. 

The little oar slid from his hand ; 

His sweet lips were apart ; 
Within my soul I felt his joy ; 

His wonder in my heart. 

And as we tokened him to come. 

His little boat he neared, 
And smiled at all our friendly words, 

Nor seemed the least afeared. 

" Come hither a-board !" the captain said ; 

And without fear of ill, 
He sprang into the lordly ship, 

With frank and free good will. 

He was no son of the merman ; 

No syren full of guile ; 
But a creature like the cherubim. 

From some unknown-of isle. 

And strange to tell, his pleasant speech 

Was English, every word ; 
And yet such English, sweet and pure. 

As his I never heard. 

There were three, he said, who dwelt with him 

Within a tamarind-grove ; 
His parents and his sister young, — 

A family of love. 

His father, he said, had made his boat 

From out a large sea-shell ; 
" And what a wondrous tale," said he, 

" I shall this evening tell I" 

His robes, he said, his mother had wove 

From roots of an Indian-tree ; 
And he laughed at the clothes the seamen wore. 

With the merriest mockery. 

When the little child had stayed with us, 

May-be an hour or so. 
He smiled farewell to all on board, 

And said that he would go. 

"For I must be back again," said he, 

" For me they all w ill wait ; 
I must be back again," quoth he, 

" Or ever the day be late !" 

" He shall not go !" the captain said ; 

" Haul up his boat and oar! 
The pretty boy shall sail with us 

To the famous English shore ! 

"Thou shalt with me, my pretty boy; 

I '11 find thee a new mother; — 
I've children three at home, and thou 

To them shalt be a brother !" 

"Nay, nay, I shall go back!" he said; 

" For thee I do not know ; — 
I must be back again," he cried, 

" Before the sun be low !" 
Then sprang unto the vessel's side. 

And made as he would go. 
10 



The captain was a strong, stem man ; 

None liked him overwell ; 
And to a seaman standing near, 
Said he, with voice and look austere, 

" Haul up yon cockle-shell ! 
And you, my boy, content you, 

In this good ship to dwell !" 

As one who gladly would believe 

Some awful threat a joke. 
So heard the child, with half a smile. 

The words the captain spoke. 

But when he saw them seize his boat, 

And put his oar away. 
The smile was gone, and o'er his face 

Quick passed a pale dismay. 

And then a passion seized his frame, 

As if he were possessed ; 
He stamped his little feet in rage. 

And smote upon his breast. 

'Twas a wicked deed as e'er was done — 

I longed to set him free ; 
And the impwtence of his great grief 

Was a grievous sight to me. 

At length, when rage had spent itself, 

His lofty heart gave way. 
And, falling on his pretty knees, 

At the .captain's feet he lay. 

"Oh take me back again!" he cried, 

" Let me not tarry here. 
And I '11 give thee sea-apples. 

And honey rich and clear ; 

" And fetch thee heavy pearl-stones 

From deep sea-caves below^ ; 
And red tree-gold and coral-tree, 

If thou wilt let me go ! 

" Or if I must abide with thee, — 

In thy great ship to dwell. 
Let me but just go back again, 

To bid them all farewell !" 

And at the word " farewell " he wept. 
As if his heart would break ; 

The very memory of his tears 
Sore sad my heart doth make. 

The captain's self was almost moved 

To hear his w'oful cry ; 
And there was not within the ship 

One man whose eyes were dry. 

When the captain saw the seamen's grief. 

An angry man was he, 
And shut his heart against the child. 

For our great sympathy. 

Down from the deck he took him 

To his cabin all alone : 
We saw him not for many a day. 

But only heard his moan. 

109 



100 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



PART 11. 

It was a wicked deed, and Heaven 

All wickedness doth hate ; 
And vengeance on the oppressor, 

It Cometh soon or late, — 

As you will see. There something was, 

Even from the very night 
Whereon the captain stole the child. 

On board that was not right. 

From out the cabin evermore, 

Where they were all alone. 
We heard, oh piteous sounds to hear, 

A low and quiet moan ; 
And now and then cries sad enough 

To move a heart of stone. 

The captain had a conscious look. 

Like one who doeth wrong. 
And yet who striveth all the time 

Against a conscience strong. 

The seamen did not work at all 

With a good will or a free ; 
And the ship, as she were sullen too, 

Went slowly over the sea. 
'Twas then the captain from below 

Sent down in haste for me. 

I found him lying on his bed. 

Oppressed with fever-pain ; 
And by his death-struck face, I saw 

That he would not rise again, — 
That he, so lately hale and strong. 

Would never rise again. 

"I have done wickedly," said he, 
" And Christ doth me condemn ; — 

I have children three on land," groaned he, 
" And woe will come to them ! 

" I have been weighed, and wanting found ; 

I've done an evil deed! — 
I pray thee, mate, 'tis not too late. 

Take back this child with speed ! 

"I have children three," again groaned he, 
" And I pray that this be done I 

Thou wilt have order of the ship 
When I am dead and gone : — 

I pray thee do the thing I ask. 
That mercy may be won!" 

I vowed to do the thing he asked, 

Upon the Testament; 
And true enough, that very day 

To his account he went. 
I took the little child away. 

And set him on my knee. 
In the free fresh air upon the deck. 

But he spoke no word to me. 
I feared at first that all his grief 

Had robbed him of his speech, 
And that I ne'er by word or look. 

His sunken soul could reach. 



At length he woke from that dead woe, 
Like one that long hath slept. 

And cast his arms about my neck. 
And long and freely wept. 

I clasped him close unto my breast. 

Yet knew not what to say. 
To wile him from the misery 

That on his spirit lay. 

At length I did bethink me 
Of Jesus Christ ; and spake 

To that poor lamb of all the woe 
He suffered for our sake. 

" For me and thee, dear child," I said, 
" He suffered, and be sure 

He will not lay a pang on thee 
Without he give the cure !" 

Like as the heavy clouds of night 
Pass from the coming day. 

So cleared the sullen weight of woe 
From his dear soul away. 

Oh happy hours of converse sweet ; — 
The Christian's hope he knew. 

And with an eager heart he gained 
That knowledge sweet and new. 

And ever by my side he kept, 
Loving, and meek, and still: 

But never more to him returned 
His bold and wayward will: — 

He had been tried and purified 
From every taint of ill. 

PART IH. 

The eve whereon the captain died 

I turned the ship about. 
And said unto the seamen good, 

" We '11 find the island out." 

So back unto the place we came, 
Where we the child had found ; 

And two full days with anxious watch. 
We sailed it all around. 

And on the third, at break of day, 

A far-olf peak was seen; 
And then the low-lands rose to view. 

All woody, rich, and green. 

Down on his knees the child he fell, 
When the mountains came in view. 

And tears ran streaming from his eyes, — 
For his own isle he knew. 

And, with a wildly-piercing tone, 

He cried, "Oh mother dear. 
Weep not, — I come, my mother !" 

Long, long ere she could hear. 

And soon we saw a mountain-top 

Whereon a beacon burned ; 
Then as the good ship neared the land, 

An answer was returned. 

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HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



101 



" Oh give to me my boat !" he cried. 

And give to me mine oar !" 
Just then we saw another boat 

Pushed from the island-shore. 

A carved boat of sandal-wood, 

Its sail a silken mat. 
All richly wrought in rainbow-dyes, 

And three within her sat. 

Down from the ship into the sea 

The little boy he sprung; 
And the mother gave a scream of joy. 

With which the island rung. 

Like some sea-creature beautiful 

He swam the ocean-tide, 
And ere we wondered at his skill 

He clomb the shallop's side. 

Next moment in his mother's arms 

He lay, O sweet embrace I 
Looking from her dear bosom up 

Into her loving face. 

The happiest and the sweetest sight 
That e'er mine eyes will .see. 

Was the coming back of this poor child 
Unto his family! 

— Now wot ye of his parentage ? 

Sometime I'll tell you it; 
Of meaner matter many a time 

Has many a book been writ. 

'T would make a pleasant history 
Of joy scarce touched by woe. 

Of innocence and love ; but now 
This only must you know. 

His mother was of English birth, 
Well-born, and young, and fair ; 

In the wreck of an East-Indiaman 
She had been saved there. 

His father was the island's chief. 

Goodly as man can be ; 
Adam, methinks, in Paradise 

Was such a one as he. 

'T is not for my weak speech to tell 
The joy so sweet and good, 

Of these kind, simple islanders. 
Nor all their gratitude. 

Whate'er the island held they gave ; 

Delicious fruits and wines. 
Rich-tinted shells from out the sea, 

And ore from out their mines. 

But I might not stay ; and that same day 

Again we turned about, 
And, with the wind that changed then 

Went from the harbour out. 

— 'T is joy to do an upright deed ; 

'T is joy to do a kind ; 
And the best reward of virtuous deeds 

Is the peace of one's own mind. 



But a blessing great went with the ship, 
And with the freight she bore ; 

The pearl-shells turned to great account, 
So did the island's ore; — 

But I someway lost my reckoning, 
Nor found the island more. 

And how the child became a man, 

Or what to him befel, 
As I never trod the island more, 

Is not for me to tell. 



EASTER HYMNS. 

HYMN I. 
THE TWO MARYS. 

Oh dark day of sorrow, 
Amazement and pain ; 
When the promise was blighted 
The given was ta'en! 

When the master no longer 
A refuge should prove ; 
And evil was stronger 
Than mercy and love! 

Oh dark day of sorrow. 
Abasement and dread, 
When the Master beloved 
Was one with the dead ! 

We sate in our anguish 
Afar off to see, 
For we surely believed not 
This sorrow could be! 

But the trust of our spirits 
Was all overthrown; 
And we wept, in our anguish. 
Astonished, alone! 

At even they laid him 
With aloes and myrrh, 
In fine linen wound, in 
A new sepulchre. 

There, there will we seek him : 
Will wash him with care; 
Anoint him with spices : 
And mourn for him there. 

Oh strangest of sorrow ! 
Oh vision of fear ! 
New grief is around us — 
The Lord is not here! 



HYMN II. 

THE ANGEL. 

Women, why shrink ye 
With wonder and dread? — 
Seek not the living 
Where slumbers the dead! 
Ill 



102 


HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 




Weep not, nor tremble; 






And be not dismayed ; 


HYMN IV. 




The Lord hath arisen! 






See where he was laid ! 


THE ELEVEN. 

The Lord is ascending! — ; 
Rich welcomes to give him : 




The grave-clothes, behold them; 




The spices ; the bier ; 


See, angels descending! — 




The napkin that bound him ; — 


The heavens receive him! 




But he is not here ! 


See, angels, archangels 




Death could not hold him ; 


Bend down to adore! — j 




The grave is a prison 


The Lord hath ascended. 




That keeps not the living; 


We see him no more ! 




The Christ has arisen ! 


The Master is taken; 
The friend hath departed; 
Yet we are not forsaken. 




HYMN III. 


Nor desolate-hearted ! 
The Master is taken ; 




THE LORD JESUS. 


The holy, the kind; 




Why are ye troubled? 


But the joy of his presence 




Why weep ye and grieve? 


Remaineth behind ! 




What the prophets have written 


Our hearts burned within us 




' Why slowly believe? 


To hear but the word 




'Tis I, be not doubtful! 


Which he spake, ere our spirits 




Why ponder ye so ? 


Acknowledged the Lord! 




Behold in my body 


The Lord hath ascended ! 




The marks of my woe ! 


Our hope is secure, 




The willing hath suffered ; 


We trusted not lightly; — 




The chosen been slain ; 


The promise is sure ! 




The end is accomplished ! 


The Lord hath ascended ; 




Behold me again ! 


And we, his true-hearted, 
Go forth with rejoicing, 




Death has been conquered — 


Though he hath departed! 




The grave has been riven — 
For sin a remission 










Hath freely been given ! 


CORN-FIELDS. 




Fearless in spirit, 


In the young merry lime of spring, 




Yet meek as the dove. 


When clover 'gins to burst ; 




Go preach to the nations 


When blue-bells nod within the wood. 




This gospel of love. 


And sweet May whitens first; 
When merle and mavis sing their fill. 




For the night of the mighty 


Green is the young corn on the hill. 




Shall o'er you be cast; 






And I will be with you, 


But when the merry spring is past. 




My friends, to the last. 


And summer groweth bold. 
And in the garden and the field 




I go to the father. 


A thousand flowers unfold ; 




But I will prepare 


Before a green leaf yet is sere. 




Your mansions of glory. 


The young corn shoots into the ear. 




And welcome you there. 


But then as day and night succeed. 




There life never-ending; 
There bliss that endures ; 


And summer weareth on. 
And in the flowery garden-beds 




There love never-changing. 
My friends, shall be yours ! 


The red-rose groweth wan. 
And holly-hock and sunflowers tall 
O'ertop the mossy garden wall : i 




But the hour is accomplished! 


When on the breath of autumn breeze. 




My children, we sever — 


From pastures dry and brown, 




But be ye not troubled. 


Goes floating, like an idle thought, j 
The fair, white thistle-down ; 




I am with you for ever ! 



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HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



103 



O, then what joy to walk at will, 
Upon the golden harvest-hill I 

What joy in dreamy ease to lie 

Amid a field new-shorn, 
And see all round on sun-lit slopes 

The piled-up shocks of corn, 
And send the fancy wandering o'er 
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore. 

I feel the day ; I see the field ; 

The quivering of the leaves 
And good old Jacob and his house 

Binding the yellow sheaves ; 
And at this very hour I seem 
To be with Joseph in his dream. 

I see the fields of Bethlehem, 

And reapers many a one. 
Bending unto their sickles' stroke. 

And Boaz looking on ; 
And Ruth, the Moabitess fair. 
Among the gleaners stooping there. 

Again, I see a little child, 
His mother's sole delight ; 

God's living gift of love unto 
The kind, good Shunamite ; 

To mortal pangs I see him yield. 

And the lad bear him from the field. 

The sun-bathed quiet of the hills ; 

The fields of Galilee, 
That eighteen hundred years agone 

Were full of corn, I see. 
And the dear Saviour take his way 
'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath-day. 

O golden fields of bending corn. 
How beautiful they seem ! — 

The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, 
To me are like a dream ; 

The sunshine and the very air 

Seem of old time, and take me there ! 



THE TWO ESTATES. 

The children of the rich old man no carking care 

they know. 
Like lilies in the sunshine how beautiful they grow I 

And well may they be beautiful ; in raiment of the 

best. 
In velvet, gold, and erm.ine, their little forms are drest. 

With a hat and jaunty feather set lightly on their 
head. 

And golden hair, like angels' locks, over their shoul- 
ders spread. 

And well may they be beautiful ; they toil not, neither 

spin, 
Nor dig, nor delve, nor do they aught their daily 

bread to win. 

10* P 



They eat from gold and silver all luxuries wealth 

can buy ; 
They sleep on beds of soflest down, in chambers rich 

and high. 

They dwell in lordly houses, with gardens round 

about. 
And servants to attend them if they go in or out. 

They have music for the hearing, and pictures for 

the eye, 
And exquisite and costly things each sense to gratify. 

No wonder they are beautiful! and if they chance 

to die, 
Among dead lords and ladies, in the chancel vault 

they lie. 

With marble tablets on the wall inscribed, that all 

may know. 
The children of the rich man are mouldering below. 



The children of the poor man, around the humblo 

doors 
They throng of city alleys and solitary moors. 

In hot and noisy factories they tarn the ceaseless 

wheel. 
And eat with feeble appetite their coarse and joyless 

meal. 

They rise up in the morning, ne'er dreaming of de- 
light; 

And weary, spent, and heart-sore, they go to bed at 
night. 

They have no brave apparel, with golden clasp and 

gem; 
So their clothes keep out the weather they're good 

enough for them. 

Their hands are broad and horny; they hunger, and 

are cold ; 
They learn what toil and sorrow mean ere they are 

five years old. 

— The poor man's child must step aside if the rich 

man's child go by; 
And scarcely aught may minister to his little vanity. 

And of what could he be vain ? — his most beautiful 

array 
Is what the rich man's children have worn and cast 

away. 

The finely spun, the many-hued, the new, are not for 
him. 

He must clothe himself, with thankfulness, in gar- 
ments soiled and dim. 

He sees the children of tlie rich in chariots gay go by. 
And " what a heavenly life is their's," he sayeth with 
a sigh. 

Then straightway to his work he goeth, for feeble 

though he be, 
His daily toil must still be done to help the family. 
U3 



104 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thus live the poor man's children ; and if they chance 

to die, 
In plain, uncostly coffins, 'mong common graves they 

lie; 

Kor monument nor head-stone their humble names 
declare : — 

But thou, O God, wilt not forget the poor man's chil- 
dren there ! 



LIFE'S MATINS. 

At that sweet hour of even, 
When nightingales awake. 

Low-bending o'er her first-born son, 
An anxious mother spake. 

" Thou child of prayer and blessing, 
Would that my soul could know. 

What the unending future holds 
For thee of joy or woe. 

"Thy life, will it be gladness, 
A sunny path of flowers ; — 

Or strift, with sorrow dark as death. 
Through weary, wintry hours? 

" Oh child of love and blessing. 
Young blossom of life's tree — 

My spirit trembles but to think 
What time may make of thee ! 

*' Yet of the unveiled future 
Would knowledge might be given!" 

Then voices of the unseen ones 
Made answer back from heaven. 

FIRST VOICE. 

" Tears he must shed unnumbered ; 

And he must strive with care, 
As strives in war the armed man; 

And human woe must bear. 

" Must learn that joy is mockery ; 

That man doth mask his heart ; 
Must prove the trusted faithless ; 

And see the loved depart! 

"Must feel himself alone, alone; 

Must weep when none can see; 
Then lock his grief, like treasure up, 

For lack of sympathy. 

" Must prove ail human knowledge 

A burden, a deceit; 
And many a flattering friendship find 

A dark and hollow cheat. 

" Well may'st thou weep, fond mother ; 

For what can life bequeath, 
But tears and sighs unnumbered, 

But watching, change, and death !" 



SECOND VOICE. 

" Rejoice, rejoice, fond mother. 

Thou hast given birth. 
To this immortal being, 

To this sweet child of earth I 

"The pearl within the ocean, 

The gold within the mine, 
Have not a thousandth part the worth 

Of this fair child of thine! 

"Oh fond and anxious mother. 

Look up with joyful eyes, 
For a boundless wealth of love and power 

In that young spirit lies ! 

" Love to enfold all natures 

In one benign embrace ; 
Power to diffuse a blessing wide 

O'er all the human race I 

" Bless God both night and morning ; 

Be thine a joyful heart;" 
For the child of mortal parents hath 

With the Eternal part I 

"The stars shall dim their brightness; 

And as a parched scroll 
The earth shall fade, but ne'er shall fade 

The undying human soul ! 

" Oh then rejoice fond mother, 

That thou hast given birth 
To this immortal being, 

To this fair child of earth !" 



THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT. 

How goodly is the earth I 
Look round about and see 

The green and fertile field ; 
The mighty branched tree; 

The little flowei-s out-spread 
In such variety ! 

Behold the lovely things 

That dance on airy wings; 

The birds whose summer pleasure 

Is not of stinted measure; 

The grassy vales, the hills ; 

The flower-enibordered rills ; 

The clouds tliat lie at rest 

Upon the noonday's breast ; 
Behold all these and know, 
How goodly is the earth ! 

How goodly is the earth ! 

Its mountain-tops behold ; 
Its rivers broad and strong ; 

Its solemn forests old ; 

Its wealth of flocks and herds ; 
Its precious stones and gold ; 
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HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



103 



Behold the radiant isles 
With which old ocean smiles; 
Behold the seasons run 
Obedient to the sun; 
The gracious showers descend ; 
Life springing without end : 
By day the glorious light ; 
The starry pomp by night; — 
Behold all these, and know 
How goodly is the earth! 

How goodly is the earth! 

Yet if this earth be made 
So goodly wherein all 

That is shall droop and fade; 
Wherein the glorious light 

Hath still its fellow, shade; — 
So goodly, where is strife 
Ever 'twixt death and life; 
Where trouble dims the eye ; 
Where sin hath mastery ; 
How much more bright and fair, 
Will be that region, where 
The saints of God shall rest 
Rejoicing with the blessed; — 

Where pain is not, nor death, — 
The Paradise of God ! 



A LIFE'S SORROW. 

AN OLD MAN'S NARRATIVE. 

My life hath had its curse ; and I will tell 

To you its dark and troubled history. 
Brethren you are ; oh then as brethren dwell, 

Linked soul to soul in blessed unity ; 

Like the rejoicing branches of a tree, 
All braving storm, all sharing sunny weather. 
All putting on their leaves, and withering all together. 

I had a brother. As a spring of joy 
Was he unto the gladness of ray youth ; 
And in our guileless confidence, each boy. 
Vowed a sweet vow of everlasting truth, 
All sympathetic love, all generous ruth ; 
Alas! that years the noble heart should fame, 
And the boy's virtue put the man to shame ! 

I was the elder ; and as years passed on 
Men paid invidious homage to the heir ; 

And pride, which was the sin of angels, won 
Our human hearts ; their guilt I will not spare : 
If I was proud, the boy began to wear 
j A lip of scorn, and paid me back my pride, 

With arrowy wit that wounded and defied. 

Still he was dear to me, and I would gaze 
With yearning heart upon him as he went 

Past me in silent pride, and inly praised 
His godlike form, and the fair lineament 
Of his fine countenance, as eloquent 

As if it breathed forth music ; and his voice 

Oh how its tones could soften and rejoice ! 



Strange was it, that a brother, thus my pride, 
Grew to my friendship so estranged and cold ; 

Strange was it, that kind spirits erst allied 
By kindred fellowship, so proved of old, 
Were sundered and to separate interests sold ! 

I know not how it was ; but pride was strong 

In either breast, and did the other wrong. 

There was another cause — we fiercely strove 
In an ambitious race; — but worse than all, 

We met, two rival combatants in love : 
My brother was the victor, and my fall, 
Maddening my jealous pride, turned love to gall. 

There was no lingeri.'ig kindness more. We parted, 

Each on his separate way, the severed-hearted. 

For years we met not ; met not till we stood. 
Silent and moody, by our father's bed. 

Each with his hatred seemingly subdued 
Whilst in the presence of that reverent head : 
Surely our steadfast rancour might have fled 

When that good father joined our hands and smiled. 

And died believing we were reconciled ! 

And so we might have been ; but there were those 
Who found advantage in our longer hate ; 

Who stepped between our hearts and kept us foes, 
And taught that hatred was inviolate : — 
Fools to be duped by such ! But ah, too late 

True knowledge and repentance come; and back 

I look in woe upon life's blighted track ! 

We were the victims of the arts we scorned ; 
We were like clay within the potter's hand : 

And so again we parted. Ke adorned 
The courtly world : his wit and manners bland 
The hearts of men and women could command. 

I too ran folly's round, till fired of pleasure, 

I sought repose in tranquil, rural leisure. 

Ere long he left his native land, and went 

Into the East with pomp and power girt round. 

And so years past; the morn of life was spent. 
And manhood's noon advanced with splendour 

crowned ; 
They said 'mid kingly luxury without bound. 

He dwelt in joy ; and that his blessings ever 

Flowed like that land's unmeasured, bounteous river. 

And the world worshipped him, for he was great — 
Great in the council, greater in the field. 

And I too had my blessings, for I sate 
Amid my little ones : the fount unsealed 
Of my heart's wronged affections seemed to yield 

A tenfold current : and my babes, like light 

Unto the captive's gaze, rejoiced my sight. 

I dwelt within my home an altered man ; 
Again all tenciernesS and love was sweet, 

'T was as if fresh existence had began. 

Since pleasant welcomes were sent forth to greet 
My coming, and the sound of little feet 

Was on my flo<jr, and bright and loving eyes 

Beamed on me without feigning a disguise. 

As the chill snows of winter melt away 

Before the genial spring, so from my heart 
Passed hatred and revenge ; and I could pray 
115 



106 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For pardon, pardoning all ; my soul was blessed 

With answered love, and hopes whereon to rest 
My joy in years to come ; I asked no more, 
The cup of that rich blessedness ran o'er. 
Alas! even then the brightness of my life 

Again grew dim; my fount of joy was dried ; 
My soul was doomed to bear a heavier strife 

Than it had borne! — my children at my side 

In their meek, loving beauty, drooped and died — 
First they, and then their mother ! Did I weep ? 
No, tears are not for griefs intense and deep ! 
Ah me ! those weary days, those painful nights, 

Wheh voices from the dead were in mine ear, 
And I had visions of my lost delights. 

And saw the lovely and the loving near. 

Then woke and knew my home so dim and drear! 
What marvel if I prayed that I might die, 
In my soul's great, unchastened misery ! 
I had known sorrow, and remorse, and shame, 

But never knew I misery till that time ; 
And in my soul sprang up the torturing blame. 

That they had died for my unpardoned crime ! 

Then madness followed ; and my manhood's prime 
Passed like a dark and hideous dream away, 
Without a memory left of night or day. 
I dwelt within my childhood's home, and yet 

I wist not of each dear familiar place ; 
My soul was in a gloomy darkness set, 

Engulphed in deadness for a season's space. 

At length light beamed ; a ray of heavenly grace 
Upon my bowed and darkened spirit lay. 
Healing its wounds and giving power to pray. 
I rose a sorrowing man, and yet renewed : 

Resigned, although abashed to the dust; 
I felt that God was righteous, true, and good. 

And though severe in awful judgment, just ; 

Therefore in him I put undoubting trust, 
And walked once more among my fellow-men, 
Yet in their vain joys mingling not again. 
My home was still a solitude ; none sought 
Nor found in me companion ; yet I pined 
For something which might win my weary thought 
From its deep anguish ; some strong, generous mind, 
Round which my lorn affections might be twined ; 
Some truthful heart on which mine own might lean. 
And still from life some scattered comfort glean. 

The dead, alas ! I sorrowed for the dead, 
Until well-nigh my madness had returned ; 

Till memory of them grew a thing of dread. 
And therefore towards a living friend I yearned. 
My brother ! then my soul unto thee turned ; 

Then pined I for thy spirit's buoyant play. 

Like the chained captive for the light of day ! 

The kindness of his youth came back to me ; 
I saw his form in visions of the night; 

I seemed to hear his foolsieps liglit and free 
Upon my floors ; the memoried delight 
Of his rich voice came back with sweeter might! 

Perchance 'twas madness — so I often thought, 

For with insatiate zeal in me it wrought. 



" I will arise," I cried, like him of yore. 
The conscience-stricken prodigal, and lay 

Myself, as in the dust, his face before, 

And, ' I have sinned, my brother !' I will say — 
' Forgive, forgive !' The clouds shall pass away. 

And I will banquet on his love ; and rest 

My weary soul on his sustaining breast !" 

I gathered up my strength ; I asked of none 
Council or aid ; I crossed the desert sea; 

The purpose of my soul, to all unknown. 
Was yet supporting energy to me. 
I was like one from cruel bonds set free. 

Who walks exulting on, yet telleth not 

The all-sufiicing gladness of his lot. 

Through the great cities of the East I passed 
Into the kingdom where he reigned supreme ; 

I came unto a gorgeous palace, vast 
As the creation of a poet's dream : — 
My strength gave way, how little did I seem' 

I felt like Joseph's brethren, mean and base, 

I turned aside and dared not meet his face. 

Hard by there was a grove of cypress trees ; 
A place, as if for mourning spirits made ; 

Thither I sped, my burdened heart to ease, 
And weep unseen within the secret shade. — 
A mighty woe that cypress grove displayed ! 

Oh let me weep ! you will not say that tears 

Wrung by that sorrow can be stanched by years. 

There was a tomb ; a tomb as of a king ; 
A gorgeous palace of the unconscious dead. 

My heart died in me, like the failing wing 
Of the struck bird, as on that wall I read 
My brother's name! Feeling and memory fled; 

The flood-gates of my misery gave way, 

And senseless on the marble floor I lay. 

I lay for hours ; and when my sense returned 
The day was o'er ; no moon was in the sky. 

But the thick-strewn, eternal planets burned 
In tjieir celestial beauty steadfastly ; — 
It seemed each star was as a heavenly eye 

Looking upon my sorrow; — thus I deemed. 

And sate within the tomb till morning beamed. 

— For this T crossed the sea ; in those far wilds. 
Through perils numberless, for this I went! 

What followed next I tell not: as a child's 
Again my soul was feeble ; too much spent 
To suffer as of old, or to lament. 

I came back to the scenes where life began, 

By griefs, not years, a bowed and aged man. 

I murmur not; but with submissive will 
Resign to woe the evening of my day; 
On the great morrow love will have its fill ; 
Cod will forgive our poor repentant clay. 
Nor thrust us from his paradise away ! 
Rut breihren, be ye warned ! Oh do not sever 
Your kindred hearts, which should be linked k 

For ever ! 

116 



HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



107 



THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW. 

My old friend, he was a good old friend, 
And I thought, like a fool, his face to mend ; 
I got another ; but ah ! to my cost 
I found him unlike the one I had lost ! 
I and my friend, we were bred together: — 
He had a smile like the summer weather ; 
A kind warm heart ; and a hand as free : — 
My friend, he was all the world to me ! 

I could sit with him and crack many a joke, 

And talk of old times and the village folk ; 

He had been with us at the Christmas time ; 

He knew every tree we used to cjimb; 

And where we played ; and what befell, 

My dear old friend remembered well. 

It did me good but to see his face ; 

And I 've put another friend in his place ! 

I wonder how such a thing could be, 

iFor my old friend would not have slighted me ! 

Oh my fine new friend, he is smooth and bland, 
With a jewelled ring or two on his hand ; 
He visits my lord and my lady fair ; 
He hums the last new opera air. 
He takes not the children on his knee ; 
IMy faithful hound reproacheth me. 
For he snarls when my new friend draweth near, 
But my good old friend to the brute was dear I 
I wonder how I such thing could do, 
|iAs change the old friend for the new ! 

My rare old friend, he read the plays, 
I That were written in Master Shakspeare's days; 
' He found in them wit and moral good : — 
JMy new friend thinks them coarse and rude: — 
I And many a pleasant song he sung, 

Because they were made when we were young; 
I He was not too grand, not he, to know 
j The merry old songs made long ago. 

He writ his name on the window-pane ; — 

It was cracked by my new friend's riding-cane ! 

My good old friend, " he tirled at the pin," 
He opened the door and entered in ; 
We all were glad to see his face 
As he took at the fire his 'customed place, 
And the little children, loud in glee. 
They welcomed him as they welcomed me. 
He knew our griefs, our joys he shared ; 
There cannot be friend with him compared ; 
We had tried him long, had found him true! 
I Why changed I the old friend for the new' 

My new friend cometh in lordly state; 

He peals a startling ring at the gate ; 

There 's hurry and pomp, there 's pride and din, 

And my new friend bravely entereth in. 

[ bring out the noblest wines for cheer, 
i [ make him a feast that costeth dear ; 

But he knows not what in my heart lies deep; — 
I He may laugh with me, but never shall weep, 
\ 



For there is no bond between us twain ; 
And I sigh for my dear old friend again; 
And thus, too late, I bitterly rue 
That I changed the old friend for the new ! 



MABEL ON MIDSUMMER DAY. 

A STORY OP THE OLDEN TIME. 
PART I. 

" Arise, my maiden, Mabel," 

The mother said, " arise, 
For the golden sun of Midsummer 

Is shining in the skies. 

"Arise, my little maiden. 

For thou must speed away. 
To wait upon thy grandmother 

This livelong summer day. 

" And thou must carry with thee 

This wheaten cake so fine ; 
This new-made pat of butter; 

This little flask of wine ! 

" And tell the dear old body. 

This day I cannot come. 
For the good man went out yester-mom. 

And he is not come home. 

" And more than this, poor Amy 

Upon my knee doth lie ; 
I fear me, with this fever-pain 

That little child will die ! 

"And thou can'st help thy grandmother; 

The table thou can'st spread ; 
Can'st feed the little dog and bird. 

And thou can'st make her bed. 

" And thou can'st fetch the water. 

From the lady-well hard by ; 
And thou can'st gather from the wood 

The fagots brown and dry. 

" Can'st go down to the lonesome glen, 

To milk the mother-ewe; 
This is the work, my Mabel, 

That thou wilt have to do. 

" But listen now, my Mabel, 

This is Midsummer-day, 
When all the fairy people 

From elf-land come away. 

" And when thou art in lonesome glen, 

Keep by the running burn. 
And do not pluck the strawberry flower, 

Nor break the lady-fern. 

" But think not of the fairy folk, 
Lest mischief should befall ; 

Think only of poor Amy, 
And how thou lov'st us all. 

117 



108 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Yet keep good heart, my Mabel, 

If thou the fairies see, 
And give them kindly answer 

If they should speak to thee. 

" And when into the fir-wood 
Thou go'st for fagots brown, 

Do not, like idle children. 
Go wandering up and down. 

But, fill thy little apron. 
My child, with earnest speed ; 

And that thou break no living bough 
Within the wood, take heed. 

" For they are spiteful brownies 

Who in the wood abide. 
So be thou careful of this thing, 

Lest evil should betide. 

"But think not, little Mabel, 
Whilst thou art in the wood. 

Of dwarfish, wilful brownies, 
But of the Father good. 

" And when thou goest to the spring, 

To fetch the water thence. 
Do not disturb the little stream, 

Lest this should give offence. 

" For the queen of all the fairies 
She loves that water bright ; 

I 've seen her drinking there myself 
On many a summer night. 

" But she's a gracious lady. 
And her thou need'st not fear ; 

Only disturb thou not the stream, 
Nor spill the water clear .'" 

" Now all this I will heed, mother, 

AVill no word disobey. 
And wait upon the grandmother 

This livelong summer day I" 

PART n. 

Away tripped little Mabel, 

With the wheaten cake so fine ; 

With the new-made pat of butter. 
And the little flask of wine. 

And long before the sun was hot, 
And morning mists had cleared, 

Beside the good old grandmother 
The willing child appeared. 

And all her mother's message 
She told with right good-will. 

How that the father was away, 
And the little child was ill. 

And then she swept the hearth up clean. 
And then the table spread ; 

And next she fed the dog and bird ; 
And then she made the bed. 

" And go now," said the grandmother, 
" Ten paces down the dell. 

And bring in water for the day ; 
Thou know'st the lady-well!" 



The first time that good Mabel went, 

Nothing at all saw she. 
Except a bird — a sky-blue bird — 

That sate upon a tree. 

The next time that good Mabel went. 

There sate a lady bright 
Beside the well, — a lady small. 

All clothed in green and white. 

A curtsey low made Mabel, 

And then she stooped to fill 
Her pitcher at the sparkling spring. 

But no drop did she spill. 

" Thou art a handy maiden," 

The fairy lady said ; 
" Thou hast not spilled a drop, nor yet 

The fair spring troubled ! 

" And for this thing which thou hast done. 

Yet may'st not understand, 
I give to thee a better gift 

Than houses or than land. 

" Thou shah do well, whate'er thou dost. 

As thou hast done this day ; 
Shalt have the will and power to please. 

And shalt be loved alway!" 

Thus having said, she passed from sight. 

And nought could Mabel see. 
But the little bird, the sky-blue bird. 

Upon the leafy tree. 

— " And now go," said the grandmother, 

" And fetch in fagots dry ,• 
All in the neighbouring fir-wood. 

Beneath the trees they lie." 

Away went kind, good Mabel, 

Into the fir-wood near, 
Where all the ground was dry and brown. 

And the grass grew thin and sere. 

She did not wander up and down, 

Nor yet a live branch pull. 
But steadily, of the fallen boughs 

She picked her apron full. 

And when the wild -wood brownies 

Came sliding to her mind. 
She drove them thence, as she was told, 

With home-thoughts sweet and kind. 

But all that while the brownies 

Within the fir-wood still. 
They watched her how she picked the wood, 

And strove to do no ill. 

" And oh, but she is small and neat," 
Said one, " 'twere shame to spite 

A creature so demure and meek, 
A creature harmless quite !" 

" Look only," said another, 

" At her little gown of blue ; 
At the kerchief pinned about her head. 

And at her little shoe !" 

118 



HYMNS AND FIRE-SIDE VERSES. 



109 



"Oh, but she is a comely child," 

Said a third, " and we will lay 
A good-luck-penny in her path, 

A boon for her this day, — 
Seeing she broke no living wood; 

No live thing did affray." 

With that the smallest penny, 

Of the finest silver ore, 
Upon the dry and slippery path, 

Lay Mabel's feet before. 

With joy she picked the penny up, 

The fairy penny good; 
And with her fagots dry and brown 

Went wondering from the wood. 

" Now she has that," said the brownies, 

" Let flax be ever so dear. 
Will buy her clothes of the very best, 

For many and many a year'." 

— "And go, now," said the grandmother, 
" Since falling is the dew. 

Go down unto the lonesome glen, 
And milk the mother-ewe !" 

All down into the lonesome glen. 
Through copses thick and wild ; 

Through moist, rank grass, by trickling streams, 
Went on the willing child. 

And when she came to lonesome glen, 

She kept beside the burn. 
And neither plucked the strawberry-flower, 

Nor broke the lady-fern. 

And while she milked the mother-ewe 

Within the lonesome glen, 
She wished that little Amy 

Were strong and well again. 

And soon as she had thought this thought, 

She heard a coming sound, 
As if a thousand fairy-folk 

Were gathering all around. 

And then she heard a little voice, 

Shrill as the midge's wing. 
That spake aloud, "a human child 

Is here — yet mark this thing! 

"The lady-fern is all unbroke. 

The strawberry-flower unta'en ! 
What shall be done for her, who still 

From mischief can refrain ?" 

" Give her a fairy-cake I" said one, 
"Grant her a wish I" said three ; 
"The latest wish that she hath wished," 
Said all, " whate'er it be !" 

— Kind Mabel heard the words they spake, 
And from the lonesome glen, 

Unto the good old grandmother 
Went gladly back again. 



Thus happened it to Mabel 
On that Midsummer-day, 

And these three fairy-blessings 
She took with her away. 

— 'Tis good to make all duty sweet, 

To be alert and kind ; 
'Tis good, like little Mabel, 

To have a willing mind ! 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

Awake, arise, good Christians, 

Let nothing you dismay ; 
Remember Christ our Saviour 

Was born upon this day! 

The self-same moon was shining 

That now is in the sky, 
When a holy band of angels 

Came down from God on high. 

Came down on clouds of glory. 

Arrayed in shining light, 
Unto the shepherd-people. 

Who watched their flocks by night. 

And through the midnight silence 

The heavenly host began, 
"Glory to God the highest; 

On earth good-will to man! 

" Fear not, we bring good tidings, 

For, on this happy morn. 
The promised one, the Saviour, 

In Bethlehem town is born !" 

Up rose the joyful shepherds 
From the ground whereon they lay, 

As ye should rise, good Christians, 
To hail this blessed day I 

Up rose the simple shepherds. 

All with a joyful mind ; 
"And let us go, with speed," said they, 

" This holy child to find !" 

Not in a kingly palace 
The son of God they found. 

But in a lowly manger 
Where oxen fed around. 

The glorious king of heaven ; 

The Lord of all the earth. 
In mercy condescended 

To be of humble birth. 

There worshipped him the wise men. 

As prophets had foretold ; 
And laid their gifts before him. 

Frankincense, myrrh, and gold. 

Long looked the simple shepherds^ 

With holy wonder stirred. 
Then praised God for all the things 

Which they had seen and heard. 
119 



110 HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


And homeward went rejoicing 


'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean. 


Upon that Christmas morn, 


Little children may be seen. 


Declaring unto every one, 


Like the flowers that spring up fair, 


That Jesus Christ was born. 


Bright and countless, everywhere ! 


That he was born, — the Saviour, 


In the far isles of the main ; 


The promised one of old ; 


In the desert's lone domain ; 


That they had seen the son of God 


In the savage mountain-glen, 


To every one tiiey told. 


'Mong the tribes of swarthy men ; 


And, like unto the shepherds, 


Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone : 


We wander far and near, 


Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone 


And bid ye wake, good Christians, 


On a league of peopled ground, 


The joyful news to hear. 


Little children may be found ! 


Awake, arise, good Christians, 


Blessings on them ! they in me 


Let nothing you dismay. 


Move a kindly sympathy, 


Remember Christ the Saviour 


With their wishes, hopes, and fears ; 


Was born upon this day ! 


With their laughter and their tears; 




With their wonder so intense, 


^=. 


And their small experience! 




Little children, not alone 


LITTLE CHILDREN. 


On the wide earth are ye known. 


Sporting through the forest wide; 


'Mid its labours and its cares. 


Playing by the water-side ; 


'Mid its sufferings and its snares. 


Wandering o'er the heathy fells ; 


Free from sorrow, free from strife, 


Down within the woodland dells; 


In the world of love and life, 


All among the mountain wild, 


Where no sinful thing hath trod ; 


Dwelleth many a little child ! 


In the presence of your God. 


In the baron's hall of pride ; 


Spotless, blameless, glorified. 


By the poor man's dull fireside : 


Little children, ye abide ! 



mv^n nnti jFlo^rts^, nntu otfirr eottnttg ^Mmu. 



JOHN HENRY AND WILLIAM GODFREY 
HOWITT, 

THESE POEMS, 

SOME OF WHICH THEY WERE THE FIRST TO READ AND 
APPROVE, 

ARE INSCRIBED, 
BY 

THEIR AFFECTIONATE AUNT. 



PREFACE. 



This volume has been written literally among 
Birds and Flowers ; and has been my pleasant occu- 
pation through the last summer months ; and now it 
is completed, my earnest wish is, that it may convey 
to many a young heart a relish for the enjoyment of 
quiet, country pleasures ; a love for every living crea- 
ture, and that strong sympathy which must grow in 
every pure heart for the great human family. 

West-End Cottage, Esiier, 
September 2Sth, 1837. 



THE STORMY PETEREL. 

O stormy, stormy, Peterel, 

Come rest thee, bird, awhile ; 

There is no storm, believe me, 
Anigh this summer isle. 

Come, rest thy waving pinions ; 

Alight thee down by me ; 
And tell me somewhat of the lore 

Thou learnest on the sea ! 

Dost hear beneath the ocean 

The gathering tempest form? 

See'st thou afar the little cloud 
That grows into the storm ? 

How is it in the billowy depths — 
Doth sea-weed heave and swell ? 

And is a soimd of coming woe 

Rung from each caverned shell ? 

Dost watch the stormy sunset 
In tempests of the west ; 

And see the old moon riding slow 

With the new moon on her breast ? 
120 



BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



Ill 



Dost mark the billows heaving 

Before the coming gale ; 
And scream for joy of every sound 

That turns the seaman pale ? 

Are gusty tempests mirth to thee? 

Lov'st thou the lightning's flash ; 
The booming of the mountain waves — 

The tiiunder's deafening crash ? 

O stormy, stormy Peterel, 

Thou art a bird of woe ! 

Yet would I thou could'st tell me half 
Of the misery thou dost know ! 

There was a ship went down last night,- 

A good ship and a fair; 
A costly freight within her lay, 

And many a soul was there ! 

The night-black storm was over her, 
And 'neath the caverned wave: 

In all her strength she perished. 
Nor skill of man could save. 

The cry of her great agony 
Went upward to the sky ; 

She perished in her strength and pride, 
Nor human aid was nigh. 

But thou, O stormy Peterel, 

Went'st screaming o'er the foam ; — 
Are there no tidings from that ship 

Which thou canst carry home ? 

Yes! He who raised the tempest up, 
Sustained each drooping one; 

And God was present in the storm. 
Though human aid was none! 



THE POOR MAN'S GARDEN. 

Ah yes, the poor man's garden ! 

It is great joy to me, 
This little, precious piece of ground 

Before his door to see ! 

The rich man has his gardeners, — 
His gardeners young and old ; 

He never takes a spade in hand. 
Nor worketh in the mould. 

It is not with the poor man so, — 
Wealth, servants, he has none ; 

And all the work that's done for him 
Must by himself be done. 

All day upon some weary task 
He toileth with good will ; 

And back he comes, at set of sun, 
His garden-plot to till. 

The rich man in his garden walks, 
And 'neath his garden trees ; 
Wrapped in a dream of other things, 
He seems to take his ease. 
II Q 



One moment he beholds his flowers, 
The next they are forgot : 

He eateth of his rarest fruits 
As though he ate them not. 

It is not with the poor man so ; — 
He knows each inch of ground, 

And every single plant and flower 
That grows within its bound. 

He knows where grow his wall-flowers. 
And when they will be out ; 

His moss-rose, and convolvulus 
That twines his pales about. 

He knows his red sweet-williams ; 

And the stocks that cost him dear, — 
That well-set row of crimson stocks. 

For he bought the seed last year. 

And though unto the rich man 
The cost of flowers is nought, 

A sixpence to a poor man 

Is toil, and care, and thought. 

And here is his potatoe-bed. 

All well-grown, strong, and green ; 
How could a rich man's heart leap up 

At anything so mean! 

But he, the poor man, sees his crop. 
And a thankful man is he, 

For he thinks all through the winter 
How rich his board will be 

And how his merry little ones 
Beside the fire will stand. 

Each with a large potatoe 

In a round and rosy hand. 

The rich man has his wall-fruits, 

And his delicious vines; 
His fruit for every season ; 

His melons and his pines. 

The poor man has his gooseberries ; 

His currants white and red ; 
His apple and his damson tree, 

And a little strawberry-bed. 

A happy man he thinks himself, 
A man that's passing well, — 

To have .some fruit for the children, 
And some besides to sell. 

Around the rich man's trellissed bower 
Gay, costly creepers run ; 

The poor man has his scarlet-beans 
To screen him from the sun. 

And there before the little bench, 
O'ershadowed by the bower, 

Grow southern-wood and lemon-thyme, 
Sweet-pea and gilliflower; 

And pinks and clove-carnations, 
Rich-scented side by side ; 

And at each end a holly-hock, 

With an edge of London-pride. 
121 



112 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And here comes the old grandmother, 
When her day's work is done ; 

And here they bring the sickly babe 
To cheer it in the sun. 

And here, on Sabbath-mornings, 
The good man comes to get 

His Sunday nosegay, moss-rose bud, 
White pink, and mignonette. 

And here, on Sabbalh-evenings, 

Until the stars are out, 
With a little one in either hand. 

He walketh all about. 

For though his garden-plot is small. 

Him doth it satisfy; 
For there 's no inch of all his ground 

That does not fill his eye. 

It is not with the rich man thus ; 

For though his grounds are wide. 
He looks beyond, and yet beyond. 

With soul unsatisfied. 

Yes ! in the poor man's garden grow 
Far more than herbs and flowers ; — 

Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind. 
And joy for weary hours. 



THE APPLE-TREE, 

Let them sing of bright red gold ; 

Let them sing of silver fair; 
Sing of all that's on the earth, 

All that 's in the air; 
All that 's in the sunny air. 

All that 's in the sea; 
And I 'II sing a song as rare 

Of the apple-tree ! 
The red-bloomed apple-tree; 
The red-cheeked apple-tree ; 
That 's the tree for you and me. 

The ripe, rosy apple-tree I 

Learned men have learned books. 

Which they ponder day and night; 
Easier leaves than theirs I read, — 

Blossoms pink and white ; 
Blossom-leaves all pink and white. 

Wherein I can see 
Charactered, as clear as light. 

The old apple-tree ; 
The gold-cheeked apple-tree; 
The red-streaked apple-tree ; 
All the fruit that groweth on 

The ripe, rosy apple-tree ! 

Autumn comes, and our good-man 

Soon as harvest-toil is o'er. 
Speculates on apple-crops — 

Be they less or more ; 
I could tell him ; less or more 

Is well-known to me ; 
I have eyes that see the core 

Of the apple-tree ; 



The old, mossy apple-tree ; 
The young, glossy apple-tree; 
Scathed or sound, the country round, 
I know every apple-tree! 

Winter comes, as winter will, 

Bringing dark days, I'rost, and rime; 
But the apple is in vogue 

At the Christmas-time; 
At the merry Chri.slmas-time 

Folks are full of glee ; 
Then they bring out apples prime. 

Of the primest tree ; 
Then you the roast-apple see 
While they toast the apple-tree, 
Singing, with a jolly chime. 

Of the brave old apple-tree ! 



THE HERON. 

Lo I there the hermit of the waste. 

The ghost of ages dim. 
The fisher of the solitudes. 

Stands by the river's brim! 

Old Heron, in the feudal times, 

Beside the forest stream. 
And by the moorland waters, 

Thus didst thou love to dream. 

And over towers and castles high, 

And o'er the armed men. 
Skirmishing on the border-lands. 

Or crouching in the glen; 

Thy heavy wings were seen to flit. 
Thy azure shape was known 

To pilgrim and to anchorite, 

In deserts scorched and lone. 

Old Heron, in those feudal times 
Thou wast in dangerous grace. 

Secured by mandates and by laws 
All for the royal chase. 

No meaner head might plot thy death 
Than one which wore a crown; 

No meaner hand might loose the shaft, 
From the skies to strike thee down. 

And out came trooping courtly dames. 

And men of high degree. 
On steeds caparisoned in gold, 

With bridles ringing free. 

Came king and queen ; came warrior stout ; 

Came lord and lady fair, 
All gallant, beautiful, and bold. 

Into the autumn air. 

The abbot and the bishop grave. 

The monk with crown new-shorn. 

Who sore did rue their ravaged stew * 
In the last Lent forlorn. 



* Fish-pond. 



122 



BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 113 



The keepers with their dogs in leash ; 

The falconers before, 
Who proudly on their sturdy wrists 

The hooded tercel bore. 

And in thy solitary haunts 

By stream or sedgy mere, 
The laugh, the shout, the cries of dogs 

And men, came to thine ear. 

And starting from thy reverie. 

And springing from tlie bent, 

Into the air, from joyous hearts, 
Another shout was sent. 

Up, up, into the azure skies 

On circling pinions strong, 
Fair eyes pursued thy mounting course 

While the falcon sped along. 

Up, up, into the azure skies 

Thy strenuous pinions go, 
While shouts and cries, and wondering eyes, 

Still reach thee from below ; 
But higher, and higher, like a spirit of fire. 

Still o'er thee hangs thy foe ; 

Thy cruel foe, still seeking 

With one down-plunging aim, 

To strike thy precious life 
For ever from thy frame ! 

But doomed perhaps, as down he darts 

Swift as the rushing wind. 
Impaled upon thy up-turned beak, 

To leave his own behind. 

Old Heron, all those times are past, 
Those jocund troops are fled ,• 

The king, the queen, the keepers green, 
The dogs, the hawks are dead ! 

In many a minster's solemn gloom. 

In shattered abbeys lone. 
Lie all thy crowned enemies. 

In midnight vaults of stone ! 

The towers are torn, the gates outworn, 

Portcullis, moat, and mound 
Are vanished all, or faintly mark 

Some rarely-trodden ground. 

O'er all those abbeys, convents, all 
Those chantries and crosses. 

Where thou didst glide past in thy pride. 
Grow tawny ferns and mosses. 

Where banners waved, the ivy grows; — 

Baronial times are o'er! 
The forests now are cornfields green. 

Green is the lakelet's shore. 

Where grew the furze, now runs the fence ; 

Where waved the wild-rush free, 
And whistled moorland-grasses sere, 

Fat cattle roam the lea. 



The bow is gone, the hawk is thrown 

For ever from the hand ; 
And now we live a bookish race, 

All in a cultured land. 

Yet here and there some remnant 
Of those old woodland times ; 

Some waste lies brov^■n ; some forest spreads ; 
Some rocky streamlet chimes. 

And there, beside the waters. 

On moorland and on wold. 
I find thee watching still. 

Thou fisherman of old. 

Oh fair, fair is the forest. 

When summer is in prime! 
And I love to lie by mountain lake. 

On its slopes of heath and thyme ! 

In the thyme so richly fragrant. 

In the heath that blooms so fair, 

And list the quaint bird-voices 

From the moorland and the air. 

All those that lead their sweetest lives 

Far from Ihe haunt of men. 
Are sending forth their gladness 
In many a wild cry then. 

The curlew and the plover. 

The gor-cock on the brae. 
Send, with the singing of the lark. 

Their voices far away ! 

The coot and moor-hen from the reeds. 

Or where the waters run 
Crystal and warm and glittering. 

O'er the pebbles in the sun. 

And from the air, in circling flight. 

Comes suddenly the crowd 
Of all the wild-duck army. 

With pinions rustling loud ; 

And, dashing down into the lake. 

The splashing waters bound 
In drops and showers of silver. 

And in snow-flakes all around. 

Such is the joy that wakens. 

That clamours, and that lives. 

In all the winged creatures. 

Where nature still survives," 

Where nature still survives 

In her regions wild and free ; 

So lives in all her creatures. 
Old fisherman, but thee ! 

Whene'er I meet thee. Heron, 

By river broad and deep. 
Where mountain-torrents run and moan. 

Or ponded waters sleep ; 

By tarns upon the naked hills; 

In stony regions grey. 
Or wading in the sounding sea 

Amid the hissing spray: 

123 



114 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Whene'er I see thee, Heron, 

Thy cheer is silent still ; 
Solemnly watching by the wave, 

Or o'er the dusky hill, 

Waving thy shadowy wings 
In motion grave and slow. 

Like a spirit of the solemn past 
That museth on its woe ! 

Like one that in all present joy 
Finds no congenial tone, 

For his heart is in the perished past. 
And seekelh that alone! 

Then hail to thee, old Heron, 
Flit on from dream to dream; 

Be yet the watcher on the shore. 
The spirit of the stream ; 

For still at sight of thee come back 
The storied times of old ; 

The jovial hawking-train, the chase. 
The sturdy bowmen bold. 

Still wandering over cultured fields. 
Or 'mid the human throng, 

Come back the feudal castle, 
The harper and his song. 

And it is pleasant thus to dream 
In this kingdom of the free, 

]Vow laws are strong and roads are good, 
Of outlaw 'neath his tree. 

Now knowledge falls like sunshine. 
And peace walks in our towns — 

Oh pleasant are the feudal days 

And the bloody strife of crowns ! 

Then hail to thee, old Heron ! 

Flit on to lakes and streams ; 
And by their waters dreaming. 

Still prompt these pleasant dreams! 



THE ROSE OF MAY. 

Ah there 's the lily, marble pale, 
The bonny broom, the cistus frail. 
The rich sweet-pea, the iris blue. 
The larkspur with its peacock hue ; — 
Each one is fair, yet hold I will 
That the rose of May is fairer still. 

'Tis grand 'neath palace-walls to grow ; 
To blaze where lords and ladies go ; 
To hang o'er marble founts, and shine 
In modern gardens trim and fine; — 
But the rose of May is only seen 
Where the great of other days have been. 

The house is mouldering stone by stone ; 
The garden-walks are overgrown ; 
The flowers are low, the weeds are high ; 
The fountain-stream is choked and dry ; 
The dial-stone with moss is green, 
Where'er the rose of May is seen. 



The rose of May its pride display'd 
Along the old stone balustrade ; 
And ancient ladies, quaintly dight. 
In its pink blossoms took delight. 
And on the steps would make a stand, 
To scent its sweetness, fan in hand. 

Long have been dead those ladies gay ; 
Their very heirs have passed away ; 
And their old portraits, prim and tall. 
Are mouldering in the mouldering hall ; 
The terrace and the balustrade 
Lie broken, weedy, and decayed. 

But, lithe and tall, the rose of May 
Shoots upward through the ruin grey. 
With scented flower, and leaf pale-green, 
Such rose as it hath ever been ; 
Lefti like a noble deed, to grace 
The memory of an ancient race ! 

What exact species of rose this is I do not know; 
it appears not to be approved of in modem gardens, 
— at least if it be, it is so much altered by cultivation 
as to have lost much of its primitive character. I 
saw it in three diflferent situations in Nottingham- 
shire. In the small remains of gardens and old laby- 
rinthine shrubbery at Awthorpe Hall, — which, when 
we were there, had just been taken down, — the resi- 
dence of the good Colonel John Hutchinson and hia 
sweet wife Lucy ; — in the very gardens which, 33 
she relates in his life, he laid out and took so much 
pleasure in. It was growing also, with tall shoots 
and abundance of flowers, in the most forlorn of gar- 
dens at an old place called Burton Grange, a house 
so desolate and deserted as to have gained from a 
poetical friend of ours the appropriate name of The 
Dead House. It was a dreary and most lonesome 
place ; the very bricks of which it was built were 
bleached by long exposure to wind and weather; 
there seemed no life within or about it. Every trace 
of furniture and wainscot was gone from its interior, 
and its principal rooms were the depositories of old 
ploughs and disused ladders ; yet still its roof, floors, 
and windows were in decent repair. It had once 
upon a time been a well-conditioned house ; had been 
moated, and its garden-wall had been terminated by ' 
stately stone pillars surmounted by well-cut urns, one 
of which, at the lime we were there, lay overgrown 
with grass in the ground beneath ; the other, after a 
similar fall, had been replaced, but with the wrong 
end uppermost. To add still more to its lonesome- 
ness, thick, wild woods encompassed it on three sides, 
whence of an evening, and often too in the course 
of the day, came the voices of owls and other gloomy 
wood-creatures. 

" There 's not a flower in the garden," said a wo- 
man who, with her husband and child, we found, to 
our astonishment, inhabiting what had once been the 
scullery, — " not a flower but fever-few and the rose 
of May, and you '11 not think it worth getting." She 
was mistaken ; I was delighted to find this sweet and 
favourite rose in so ruinous a situation. 

Again, we found it in the gardens of Annesley Hall, 
124 



J 



BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



115 



that most poetical of old mansions ; and the ancient 
housekeeper, at that lime its sole inhabitant, pointed 
out this flower with a particular emphasis. "And 
here 's the rose of May," said she, drawing out a 
slender spray from a tangle of jessamine that hung 
about the stone-work of the terrace ; " a main pretty 
thing, (hough there's little store set by it novv-a- 
daysl" 



THE DOR-HAWK. 

Fern-owl, Churn-owl, or Goat-sucker, 
Night-jar, Dor-hawk, or whate'er 

Be thy name among a cjzen, — 

Whip-poor- Will's and VVho-are-you's cousin, 

Chuck- Will's-widow's near relation, 

Thou art at thy night vocation, 

Thrilling the still evening air! 

In the dark brown wood beyond us, 

Where the night lies dusk and deep; 

Where the fox his furrow maketh. 

Where the tawny owl awaketh 
Nightly from his day-long sleep ; 

There Dor-hawk is thy abiding. 

Meadow green is not for thee ; 
While the aspen branches shiver, 
'Mid the roaring of the river. 

Comes thy chirring voice to me. 

Bird, thy form I never looked on. 

And to see it do not care ; 
Thou hast been, and thou art only 
As a voice of forests lonely, 

Heard and dwelling only there. 

Bringing thoughts of dusk and shadow ; 

Trees huge-branched in ceaseless change; 
Pallid night-moths, spectre-seeming; 
All a silent land of dreaming. 

Indistinct and large and strange. 

Be thou thus, and thus I prize thee 

More than knowing thee face to face, 
Head and beak and leg and feather. 
Kept from harm of touch and weather, 
Underneath a fine glass-case. 

I can read of thee, and find out 

How thou fliest, last or slow ; 
Of thee in the north and south too. 
Of thy great moustachioed mouth too, 

And thy Latin name also. 

But, Dor-havvk, I love thee better 

While thy voice unto me seems 
Coming o'er the evening meadows. 
From a dark brown land of shadows. 
Like a pleasant voice of dreams ! 

This singular bird, which is found in every part 
of the old world, as well in the cold regions of Sibe- 
ria, as in the hot jungles of India, and the lion-haunted 
forests of Africa, has, as we have said, a large class 
11* 



of relations also in America: the Whip-poor-Will, 
the Willy-come-go, the Work-away, and the Who- 
are-you? being all of the same family. In Africa 
and among the American Indians these birds are 
looked upon with reverence or fear; for, by some 
they are supposed lo be haunted by the dead, and by 
others to be obedient to gloomy or evil spirits. The 
Dor-Hawk of our own country has been subject to 
slander, as his name of the goat-sucker shows. This 
name originated of course in districts where goats 
were used for milking, and furnished, no doubt, an 
excuse for the false herd, who stole the milk and 
blamed the bird. 

The Dor-Hawk, like the owl, is not seen in the 
day; and like it also, is an inhabitant of wild and 
gloomy scenes ; heathy tracks abounding in fern ; 
moors, and old woods. It is so regular in the time 
of beginning its nightly cry, that good old Gilbert 
White declares, it appeared to him to strike up ex- 
actly when the report of the Portsmouth evening gun 
was heard. He says also, that its voice, which re- 
sembles the loud purring of a cat, occasions a singu- 
lar vibration even in solid buildings ; for that, as he 
and some of his neighbours sate in a hermitage on a 
steep hill-side, where they had been taking tea, a 
Dor-Hawk alighted on the little cross at the top, and 
uttered his cry, making the walls of the building 
sensibly vibrate, to the wonder of all the company. 

I can give no anecdotes of the bird from my own 
experience. I know him best by his voice, heard 
mostly from scenes of a wild and picturesque char- 
acter, in the gloom and shadow of evening, or in the 
deep calm of summer moonlight. I heard him first 
in a black, solemn-looking wood, between Houghton 
Tower, and Pleasington Priory, in Lancashire. Since 
then I have become familiar with his voice in the 
pleasant woods of Winter-down, and Claremont, in 
Surrey. 



THE OAK-TREE. 

Sing for the Oak-Tree, 

The monarch of the wood ; 
Sing for the Oak-tree, 

That groweth green and good ; 
That groweth bioad and branching 

Within the forest shade ; 
That groweth now, and yet shall grow 

When we are lowly laid! 

The Oak-Tree was an acorn once. 

And fell upon the earth ; 
And sun and showers nourished it, 

And gave the Oak-tree birth. 
The little sprouting Oak-Tree I 

Two leaves it had at first, 
Till sun and showers had nourished it, 

Then out the branches burst. 

The little sapling Oak-Tree! 

Its root was like a thread. 
Till the kindly earth had nourished it. 

Then out it freely spread : 

125 



116 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



On this side and on that side 

It grappled with the ground ; 

And in the ancient, rifted rock 
Its firmest footing found. 

The winds came, and the rain fell ; 

The gusty tempests blew ; 
All, all were friends to the Oak-Tree, 

And stronger yet it grew. 
The boy that saw the acorn fall, 

He feeble grew and grey ; 
But the Oak was still a thriving tree. 

And strengthened every day ! 

Four centuries grows the Oak-Tree, 

Nor doth its verdure fail ; 
Its heart is like the iron-wood, 

Its bark like plated mail. 
JVow, cut us down the Oak-Tree, 

The monarch of the wood ; 
And of its timbers stout and strong 

We'll build a vessel good! 

The Oak-Tree of the forest 

Both east and west shall fly ; 
And the blessings of a thousand lands 

Upon our ship shall lie I 
For she shall not be a man-of-war. 

Nor a pirate shall she be : — 
But a noble, Christian merchant-ship, 

To sail upon the sea. 

Then Sing for the Oak-Tree, 

The monarch of the wood ; 
Sing for the Oak-Tree, 

That groweth green and good ; 
That groweth broad and branching 

Within the forest shade ; 
That groweth now, and yet shall grow, 

When we are lowly laid ! 



THE CAROLINA PARROT. 

Parrots, with all their cleverness, are not capa- 
ble of keeping up a dialogue ; otherwise we might 
suppose something Hke the following to be in charac- 
ter with their humour and experience. 

Poll's Mistress. 

I 've heard of imp, I 've heard of sprite ; 

Of fays and fairies of the night ; 

Of that renowned fiend Hobgoblin, 

Running, racing, jumping, hobbhng ; 

Of Puck, brimful of fun ; also 

Of roguish Robin Goodfellow. 

I 've seen a hearth where, as is told, 

Came Hobthrush in the days of old. 

To make the butter, mend the linen. 

And keep the housewife's wheel a-spinning. 

I 've heard of pigmies, pixies, lares, 

Shoirim, gemednn, and fairies: — 

And, Parrot, on my honest word, 

I hardly think thou art a bird ; — 



Thou art some pixy, quaint and queer ; 

Thou art not canny. Poll, I fear! 

Look at that impish leer of thme ; 

List to thy scream, thy shout, thy whine, 

And none will doubt but thou must be 

A creature of the fiiery. 

Or tell me, Poll, art thou not kin 

To Jack o' lanthern ? Come, begin ! 

Answer me. Poll, was 't 'mong the fairies 

Thou learnt thy many strange vagaries ? 

Speak, pretty Poll ! 

Poll. 

Well, I don't care if I tell j'ou all. 
You 've got some company, I see ; a short gentleman 

and a tall ; 
Many ladies, too, altogether two or three dozens, 
I should not wonder if they are some of your uncles 

and cousins ! 
Pray am not I a very fine bird. 
Green, and yellow, and scarlet? — 

Upon my word ! 
That man has a coat on like our Captain ! 

Captain. 

Poll, how do you do. my dear ? 
You look well ; it 's fine living here! 

Poll. 

Ha, Captain, how do you do ? — Captain, your health, 

I say ; 
Captain, I '11 have the pleasure of drinking your 

health to-day ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
I 'm very glad to see you ! — You remember, perhaps. 
That wood in Carolina, the guns and all the traps ; — 
To be sure you do ! — Ladies, I 'm a Carolina bird, — 
Some come from the East Indies, from the Cape, too, 

I have heard ; 
But I 'm of Carolina — to the Big-bone lick I 've 

been, — 
Now in that country there is something to be seen! 
Our Captain knows that ! Ay, Captain, I say. 
Do you remember crossing the Cedar Swamp one 

particular day. 
When I got out of your pocket and flew away ? 
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! How it makes me laugh! 
You 'd a pretty chase after me I— ha ! ha ! a pretty 

chase ! 
And. I sat in the hiccory trees, laughing in your face! 

Ha! ha! ha! how I did laugh. 
What cypress-berries, cockle-burrs, and beech-nuts 

grew there! 
You may look all this country over, and find none 

anywhere. 
And what fun it was — me, and a thousand beside. 
To fly in the merry sunshine through those forests 

wide. 
And build our nests — Oh, what nests we had ! — 
Did you ever see one of our nests, Captain ? Kh, my 

lad .'" 

Captain. 

I 've heard of nests of cinnamon, ^ 

With the groat Phffinix set thereon ; 
126 



BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



117 



And swallows' nests, so rich and sweet, 
Of which the Chinese people eat ; 
But of your nests I never heard, 
What kind are they, I pray thee, bird ? 

Parrot. 

Nests ! ha ! ha ! ha I what sort of nests should they be ? 
You may fancy if you please, but you '11 never know 

from me ! 
I never blab, not I ! What sort of nest is built ? 
Ha I ha ! ha ! with sheets and blankets and a fine 

Marseilles quilt ! ha! ha! ha! 
Put it down in your little book, — a four-post bed, I 

say, 
With damask moreen hangings and made every day ! 

ha ! ha ! ha ! 
Oh, how it makes me laugh ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
I shall split my sides with laughing some of these 

days ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Captain. 

Come, now^you silly prate-a-pace 
Tell us about that Big-bone place. 
Where our acquaintance first began ; 
And of those swamps, unlrode by man, 
Where you came, impudent and merry. 
For cockle-burr and hackle-berry. 

Parrot. 

Of the Big-bone lick, did you say ? — Ay, we used to 

go there, 
A Parrot 's very fond of salt! I really declare 
I've seen terj thousand of us there altogether, — 
A beautiful sight it was, in fine summer weather, 
Like a grand velvet carpet, of orange, green, and 

yellow. 
Covering the ground ! Ah, Captain ! my good fellow, 
I had reason to rue the day you came there with your 

gun! 
I would laugh if I could, but to me it was no fun — 

heigh-ho ! 
No fun at all, Captain, heigh-ho ! 

Captain. 

Nay, Poll, cheer up, you 're better here 
Than at the Big-bone lick, my dear! 

Parrot. 

Captain, how you talk! we Parrots love each other — 

There you shot dozens of us, — my father and my mo- 
ther,— 

I shall not forget it in a hurry, — what wailing and 
crying, — 

What flying round and round there was I What com- 
forting the dying ! 

you, yourself, laid down your gun, — overcome by the 
sight. 

And said you would not shoot again, at least that 
night ! 

Heigh-ho! I am just ready to cry ! 
And I think I shnll cry before I have done! {She 
cries like a child.) 



There, now, I am better ! but my throat is quite hot ; 
Can't I have a glass of water ? — {She coughs.) Bless 

me, what a cold I 've got! 
Do, shut that window, Jenny, or we shall all die of 

cold ; 
And mend the fire, can't you, as you already have 

been told ! 
And let 's have a cup of tea, for I 'm just tired to 

death. 
What a shocking cold it is ! and I 'm so short of 

breath ! — {She coughs again.) 
{She speaJkS in another voice.) 
Tea 's ready, if you please. Ready is it ? 

With the water in the pot ? 
Yes, ma'am ! Well, tlien, I '11 go and have my tea, 

while the mufliii 's hot! 

Exit Poll. 

The Parrot of which we have been reading, may 
be supposed to have been the one of which so inter- 
esting an account is given by Wilson in his .American 
Ornithology. It was taken at the Big-bone lick, 
where he witnessed the extreme affection and strong 
sympathy which ihe parrots have for each other, and 
of which we have imagined our bird to .speak. Its 
merriment, too, respecting the nests of the tribe, may 
pass as natural, considering the little light Wilson 
could obtain on the subject, and the vivacious mock- 
ery of the bird's disposition, even if it had had the 
power of giving him the requisite information. 

The parrot has been made to speak of her travels 
with " the Captain" through the morasses and cedar- 
swamps, and of the trouble she gave him, " when 
many a time," says he, (Wilson) " I was tempted to 
abandon it." " And in this manner," he goes on to 
say, " I carried it upwards of a thousand miles in my 
pocket, where it was exposed all day to the jolting 
of the horse, but regularly liberated at meal-times 
and in the evening, at which it always expressed 
great satisfaction." The Chickasaw and the Chac- 
taw Indians, among whom he was travelling, collect- 
ed about him whenever he stopped, men, women, 
and children, laughing greatly at his novel compa- 
nion. Kelinkij was the name the Chickasaws called 
the parrot; but hearing the name of Poll, they im- 
mediately adopted it. and through Poll's medium, he 
and the Indians always became very sociable. "On 
arriving," says Wilson, " at Mr. Dunbar's, below 
Natchez, I procured a cage, and placed it under the 
piazza, where, by its call, it soon attracted the pass- 
ing flocks, such is the attachment they have lor each 
other. Numerous parlies frequently alighted on the 
trees immediately above, keeping up a continual con- 
versation with the prisoner. One of these I wound- 
ed -slightly in the wing, and the pleasure Poll express- 
ed on meeting with this new companion, was really 
amusing. She crept close up to it, as it hung on the 
side of the cage ; chattered to it in a loud tone of 
voice, as if sympathising in its misfortunes; scratched 
about its head and neck with her bill ; and both, at 
night, nestled as close as possible to each other, some- 
times Poll's head being thrust among the plumage of 
the other. On the death of this companion, she ap- 
127 



118 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



peared restless and inconsolable for several days. On 
reaching New Orleans, I placed a looking-glass in- 
side Ihe place where she usually sat, and the instant 
she perceived her image, all her former fondness 
seemed to return, so that she could scarcely absent 
herself from it for a moment. It was evident that 
she was completely deceived. Always when even- 
ing drew on, and often during the day, she laid her 
head close to that of the image in the glass, and be- 
gan to doze with great composure and satisfaction. 
In a short time she had learned to know her name ; 
to answer and come when called on ; to climb up 
my clothes, sit on my shoulder, and eat from my 
mouth. I took her with me to sea, determined to 
persevere in her education." And, to give an end- 
ing rather different to Mr. Wilson's, here we have 
presented her to our readers in the possession of an 
English lady, and with her education, for a Parrot, 
very complete. 



THE RAVEN. 

Raven on the blasted tree, 

Sitting croaking dolefully, 

I would have a word with thee! 

Raven, thou art silent now 
On the splintered forest bough, 
Glancing on me thy bright eye, 
I shall ask, — do thou reply! 
In that far-gone, awful time. 
When the earth was purged of crime, 
And old Noah and the seven 
In the gopher-ark were driven. 

RAVEN. 

I was there. 

POET. 

I know it, bird. 
And when rain no more was heard 
Plashing down in torrents wild ; 
When the face of heaven grew mild, 
And from mountain-summits brown 
The subsiding floods went down. 
And the prisoned creatures fain 
Scented the young earth again ; 
Wherefore when the patriarch forth 
Sent thee to look round the earth 
And bring tidings to his door, 
Cam'st thou to the ark no more ? 

RAVEN. 

Narrow was the ark, but wide 
And fair the earth on every side ; 
And all around in glens and plains 
Lay of life the lorn remains ; 
Man and beast and bird, like seed 
Scattered on the harvest mead : 
How could I return to bear 
Tidings ? I was feasting there ! 

POET. 

Raven, ha I I thought the same. 
But in after times ye came, 



To the exiled prophet good 
Bringing him his daily food. 

RAVEN. 

Yes, — by Cherith-brook there grew 
Mighty cedars not a few ; 
And a raven-tree was there 
Spreading forth its branches bare: 
'T was our home, when thither ran 
From the king an awful man, 
Robed and sandaled as in haste. 
With a girdle round his waist; 
Strongly built, with brow severe, 
And the bearing of a seer. 
Dovi'n by Cherith-brook he lay; 
And at morn and set of day 
Thus a voice unto us said, 
" By you must this man be fed ; 
Bring him flesh, and bring him bread ! 
And by us he was supplied, 
Duly morn and eventide. 
Until Cherith-brook was dried! 

POET. 

Wondrous miracle of love! 



Doth it thus thy spirit move? 
Deeper truth than this shall reach thee, 
Christ he bade the raven teach thee: 
They plough not, said he, nor reap. 
Nor have costly hoards to keep; 
Storehouse none, nor barn have they. 
Yet God feeds them every day ! 
Fret not then your souls with care 
What to eat, or what to wear, 
He who hears the ravens' cry 
Looketh with a pitying eye 
On his human family. 

POET. 

Raven, thou art spirit-cheering; 
What thou say'st is worth the hearing : 
Never more be it averred 
That thou art a doleful bird! 



FLOWER COMPARISONS. 

An cousin Blanche, lei's see 
What 's the flower resembling thee ! 
With those dove-like eyes of thine. 
And thy fair hair's silken twine ; 
With thy low, broad forehead, white 
As marble, and as purely bright ; 
With thy mouth so calm and sweet. 
And thy dainty hands and feet ; 
What 's the flower most like to thee ? 

Blossom of the orange-tree ! 

Where may the bright flower be met 
That can match with Margaret, — 
Margaret stately, staid, and good, 
Growing up to womanhood ; 

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BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



119 



Loving, thoughtful, wise, and kind, 
Pure in heart and strong in mind ? 
Eyes deep-blue as is the sky 
When the full moon sails on high ; 
Eyebrow true and forehead fair, 
And dark, richly-braided hair, 
And a queenly head well set. 
Crown my maiden Margaret. 
Where 's the flower that thou canst find 
Match for her in form and mind ? 

Fair white lilies, having birth 
In their native genial earth ; — 
These, in scent and queenly grace. 
Match thy maiden's form and face ! 

Now for madcap Isabel — 
What shall suit her, pr'ythee tell ! 
Isabel is brown and wild ; 
Will be evermore a child ; 
Is all laughter, all vagary, 
Has the spirit of a fairy. 
Are you grave? — The gipsy sly 
Turns on you her merry eye. 
And you laugh, despite your will. 
Isabel is never still. 
Always doing, never done. 
Be it mischief, work, or fun. 
Isabel is short and brown, 
Soft to touch as eider-down ; 
Tempered, like the balmy south, 
With a rosy, laughing mouth ; 
Cheeks just tinged with peachy red, 
And a graceful Hebe-head ; 
Hair put up in some wild way. 
Decked with a hedge-rose's spray. 
Now, where is the bud or bell 
That may match with Isabel ? 

Streaky tulip jet and gold. 
Dearly priced whenever sold ; 
Rich in colour, low and sweet, 
This for Isabel is meet. 

Last for Jeanie, grave and mild — 
Jeanie never was a child ! 
Sitting on her mother's knee. 
Hers was thoughtful infancy ; 
Growing up so meek and good. 
Even from her babyhood. 
All her mother's labour sharing; 
For the house and children caring ; 
To her bed in silence creeping; 
Rising early, little sleeping; 
Learning soon of care and need ; 
Learning late to write and read ; 
To all hardships reconciled, 
For she was a poor man's child ! 
What 's the lowly flower of earth 
Match for Jeanie's humble worth ? 

Soon poor Jeanie's flower is met,— 
The meek, precious violet! 
R 



LITTLE STREAMS. 

Little streams, in light and shadow 
Flowing through the pasture meadow ; 
Flowing by the green way-side ; 
Through the forest dim and wide : 
Through the hamlet still and small ; 
By the cottage ; by the hall ; 
By the ruined abbey still ; 
Turning, here and there, a mill ; 
Bearing tribute to the river; 
Little streams, I love you ever! 

Summer music is there flowing; 
Flowering plants in them are growing ; • 
Happy life is in- them all, 
Creatures innocent and small ; 
Little birds come down to drink 
Fearless on their leafy brink; 
Noble trees beside them grow. 
Glooming them with branches low. 
And between, the sunshine glancing. 
In their little waves is dancing. 

Little streams have flowers a many. 
Beautiful and fair as any ; 
Typha strong, and green bur-reed ; 
Willow-herb with cotton-seed ; 
Arrow-head with eye of jet. 
And the water-violet; 
There the flowering rush you meet. 
And the plumy meadow-sweet ; 
And in places deep and stilly. 
Marble-like, the water-lily. 

Little streams, their voices cheery 

Sound forth welcomes to the weary. 

Flowing on from day to day 

Without stint and without stay. 

Here, upon their flowery bank. 

In the old-times Pilgrims drank ; 

Here have seen, as now, pass by 

Kingfisher and dragon-fly ; 

Those bright things that have their dwelling 

Where the little streams are welling. 

Down in valleys green and lowly, 
Murmuring not and gliding slowly ; 
Up in mountain hollows wild. 
Fretting like a peevish child ; 
Through the hamlet, where all day 
In their waves the children play, — 
Running west, or running east. 
Doing good to man and beast. 
Always giving, weary never, 
Little streams, I love you ever ! 



THE WOLF. 

Think of the lamb in the fields of May 
Cropping the dewy flowers Cir play ; 
Think of the sunshine, warm and clear; 
Of the bending corn in golden ear ; 

129 



120 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of little children singing low 

Througli flowery meadows as they go ; 

Of cooiiii; (loves, and tlie hum of l)ees 

'Mong Iho lime-trees' yellow raciincs ; 

Of the pebbly waters gliding by. 

Of the woodbird's peaceful sylvan cry. 

Then turn thy thought to a land of snow 

Where the cutting icy wind doth blow — 

A dreary land of mountains cold, 

With ice-crags s|)lintered hoar and old. 

Jagged with woods of storm-beat pines. 

Where a cold moon gleams, a cold sun shines, 

And all through this dislant land we'll go 

In a dog-drawn sledge o'er the frozen snow, 

On either hand the ice-rocks frore, 

And a waslo of trackless snow before! 

Where are the men to guide us on ? 

Men ! in these deserts there are none. 

Men come not here, unless to track 

The ermine white or marten black. 

Hero we must speed alone. — But hark ! 

What sound was that ? The wild wolf's bark ! 

The terrible wolf! — Fs he anigh, 

With his gaimt, lean frame and his blood-shot eye? 

Yes! — across the snow I saw the track 

Where they have sped on, a hungry pack; 

And see how the eager dogs rush on, 

For they scent the track where the wolf has gone. 

And beast and man are alike afraid 

Of that crudest creature that e'er was made ! 

Oh, the horrible wolves! methinks I hear 

The sound of their barking drawing near; 

Down from their dismal caves they drive, 

And leave behind them nought alive; 

Down from their caves they come by day. 

Savage as mad-dogs for their prey ; 

Down on the tracks where the hunters roam, 

Down to the peasant's hut they come. 

The peasant is waked from his pine-branch bed 

By the direst, fiercest sound of dread ; 

A snuffing scent, a scratching sound. 

Like a dog that rendeth up I lie ground ; 

Up from his bed he springs in fear, 

P^or he knows that the cruel wolf is near. 

A moment's pause — a moment more — 

And he hears them snufling 'neaih his door. 

Beneath his door he sees them mining. 

Snuffing, snarling, scratching, whining. 

Horrible sight I no more he sees, 

With terror his very senses freeze; — 

Horrible sounds ! he hears no more. 

The wild wolves bound across his floor. 

And the next moment lap his gore ; 

And ere the day come o'er the hill, 

The wolves are gone, the place is still. 

And to none that dreadful death is known. 

Save to some ermine hunter lone, 

Who in that death foresees his own ! 

Or think thee now of a battle field. 
Where lie the wounded with the killed ; 
Hundreds of mangled men they lie ; 
A horrible mass of agony ! 



The night comes down, — and in they bound, 
The ravening wolves from the mountains round. 
All day long have they come from fcir, 
Snufling iliat bloody field of war; 
But the rolling drum, and the trumpet's bray. 
And the strife of men through the livelong day, 
For a while kept the prowling wolves away ; 
Rut now when the roaring tumults cease, 
In that dreadful h\ish, which is not peace, 
The wolves rush in to have their will. 
And to lap of living blood their fill. 
Slark and stiff the dead men lie. 
Hilt the living, — Oh, woe, to hear their cry. 
When they feel the teclh of those cruel foes, 
And hear them lap up the blood that flows! 
Oh, shame, that ever it hath been said. 
That bloody war is a glorious trade, 
And that soldiers die upon honour's bed ! 
Let us hence, let us hence, for horrible war 
Than the merciless wolf is more merciless fiir! 



THE PASSION-FLOWER. 

I LOVE sweet flowers of every sort. 
High-spired or trailing low; 

I love the musky roses red, 
The lilies white as snow. 

The aster and the columbine. 
Sweet-pea and virgin-bower, 

I love Ihcm all — but most I love 
The good old passion-flower ! 

Oh yes, the good old passion-flower! 

It bringeth to my mind, 
The young days of the Christian church, 

Dim ages left behind. 

I see the bloody streets of Rome ; 

The throng — the burning pyre. 
And Christians stand with clasped hands 

Amid the raging fire. 

I hear the women, angel-toned, 
The men with courage high, 

Preach their dear Lord amid their pangs, — 
Forgive their foes — and die. 

I see, far from the world apart, 

In desort-placcs dwell, 
The early fathers of the church. 

In wood or mountain-cell. 

And there the wondering thousands come. 

By love and pity brought. 
To hear them tell of Jesus Christ, 

And the new truths he taught. 

I see the fearless fathers stand, 

A-mid the eager throng. 
Preaching like Paul at Kpliesus, 

In burning words and strong. 

— Again I see a lonely man. 

Of spirit sad and mild. 
Who hath his little dwelling-place 

Amid a region wild. 

130 



BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



121 



The wild flowers of the desert 

Grow round him thick as weeds, 

And, in their beautiful array, 
Of holy things he reads. 

The red is the dear blood of Christ, 
The white, the pure from sin, 

The yellow is the seamless robe 
Christ was apparelled in. 

All four-leaved flowers bring to his mind 

The cross whereon he died ; 
And every thorn the cruel spear, 

That pierced his blessed side. 

I see him as he mused one day 

Beneath a forest-bower. 
With clasped hands stand, and upturned eyes, 

Before an open flower; 
Exclaiming with a fervent joy, 

"I have found the Passion-flower! 

"The Passion of our blessed Lord, 
With all his pangs and pain. 

Set forth wilhin a little flower. 
In shape and colour plain ! 

" Behold the ladder, and the cord 

With which his limbs were tied ; 

Behold his five deep, cruel wounds 
In hands, and feet, and side ! 

" Behold the hammer and the nails ; 

The bloody crown of thorn ; 
And these his precious tears, when left 

Of God and man forlorn ! 

"Up, I will forth into the world. 

And take this flower with me. 
To preach the death of Christ to all. 
As it was preached to me !" 

And thus the good old passion-flower 
Throughout the world was sent. 

To breathe into all Christian hearts 
It's holy sentiment. 

And in the after-times, when kings 

Of Christian fathers came ; 
And to profess the faith of Christ 

No longer purchased shame : 

When abbeys rose in towered state ; 

And over wood and dell. 
Went sounding, with a royal voice, 

The stately minster-bell : 

Then was the abbey-garden made 

All with the nicest care ; 
Its little borders quaintly cut 

In fancies rich and rare. 

And there they brought all curious plants, 

With sainted names, a flower 
For every saint's day of the year, — 

For every holy hour; 
And there was set, in pride of place, 

The noble passion-flower. 



And there they kept the pious monks. 

Within a garden small. 
All plants that had a healing power. 

All herbs medicinal. 

And thither came the sick, the maimed. 
The moonstruck and the blind. 

For holy flower, for wort of power. 
For charmed root and rind ! 

— Oh, those old abbey-gardens 

With their devices rich, 
Their fountains, and green, solemn walks. 

And saint in many a niche ! 

I would I could call back again 
Those gardens in their pride. 

And see slow walking up and down. 
The abbot dignified. 

And the fat monk with sleepy eyes. 

Half dozing in his cell ; 
And him, the poor lay-brother. 

That loved the flowers so well ; 

That laid the abbey-gardens out, 
With all their fancies quaint. 

And loved a little flower as much 
As his own patron saint! 

That gardened late and early. 
And twined into a bower. 

Wherein he set the crucifix 

The good old passion-flower! 

Oh, would I could bring back again. 

Those abbey-gardens old. 
And see the poor lay-brother 

So busy in the mould ; 

Tying up his flowers and thinking 
The while, with streaming eyes 

Of Jesus in the garden ; 
Of Eve in Paradise! 

— Alas, the abbey lieth low; 

The Abbot's tomb is bare ; 
And he, the abbey-gardener. 

Is all forgotten there; 

His garden is a pasture field 
Wherein the flocks repose ; 

And where his choicest flowers were set 
The common clover grows! 

But still we have the passion-flower. 

Although he lieth low. 
And ever may its holy flowers 

In pleasant gardens grow I 

To garland bower and window pane. 

And ever bring to mind. 
The young days of the Christian church, 

Long ages left behind ! 

To bring the abbey's garden back, 
With its quaint beds and bowers. 

And him the good lay-brother 

That worked among the flowers. 
131 



122 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE REINDEER. 

Reindeer, not in fields like ours 
Full of grass and bright with flowers ; 
JVot in pasture-dales where glide 
Never-frozen rivers wide ; 
Not on hills where verdure bright 
Clothes them to the topmost height, 
Hast thou dwelling ,• nor dost thou 
Feed beneath the orange-bough ; 
Nor doth olive, nor doih vine 
Bud or bloom in land of thine : 
Thou wast made to fend and fare 
In a region bleak and bare; 
In a dreary land of snow 
Where green weeds can scarcely grow ! 
Where the skies are grey and drear; 
Where 't is night for half the year ; 
Reindeer, where, unless for thee, 
Human dweller could not be. 

When thou wast at first designed 
By the great Creative Mind — 
With thy patience and thy speed ; 
With thy aid for human need ; 
With thy gentleness; thy might; 
With thy simple appetite; 
With thy foot so framed to go 
Over frozen wastes of snow, 
Thou wast made for sterner skies 
Than horizoned Paradise. 
Thou for frozen lands wast meant, 
Ere the winter's frost was sent ; 
And in love he sped thee forth 
To thy home, the frozen north. 
Where he bade the rocks produce 
Bitter lichens for thy use. 

What the camel is, thou art. 
Strong of frame, and strong in heart! 
Peaceful; steadfast to fulfil; 
Serving man with right good-will; 
Serving long, and serving hard ; 
Asking but a scant reward ; 
Of the snow a short repast. 
Or the mosses cropped in haste ; 
Then away! with all thy strength. 
Speeding him the country's length. 
Speeding onward, like the wind, 
With the sliding sledge behind. 
What the camel is, thou art — 
Doing well thy needful part; 
Through the burning sand he goes. 
Thou upon the upland snows; 
Gifted each alike, yet meant 
For lands and labours different ! 

Meek Reindeer, of wondrous worth ; 
Treasure of the desert north, 
Which, of thy good aid bereft, 
Ten times desert must be left! 
P'locks and herds in other lands. 
And the labour of men'.s hands ; 



Coined gold and silver fine. 
And the riches of the mine. 
These, elsewhere, as wealth are known, 
Here, 't is thou art wealth alone ! 



THE IVY-BUSH. 

Afar in the woods of Winter-burn, 
Beyond tlie slopes of feathery lern ; 
Beyond the lake, and beyond the fen, 
Down in a wild and sylvan glen. 
In the very heart of Winter-burn wood ; 
Last summer an ivy-bush there stood, 
As strong as an oak, as thick as a yew, 
This ivy-bush in the forest grew : 
Let us go down this day and see 
If in Winter-burn still grows this tree. 

Now we are here ; — the words I spwke 
Were not, ye see, an idle joke ! 
Stem, branch, and root, what think ye all 
Of this ivy-bush, so broad and tall ? 
Many and many a year I wis, 
The tree has throve ere it grew to this ! 
Many a year has tried its speed. 
Since this old bush was an ivy-seed ; 
And the woodman's children that were then, 
Long years ago were ancient men. 
And now no more on earth are seen ; 
But the ivy-bush is hale and green, 
And ere it sinks in slow decay. 
Many years to come will have passed away. 

All round about 'mong its twisting boughs 
There 's many an owl doth snugly house. 
Warm feathered o'er, yet none can see 
How they winking sit in the ivy-tree. 
For the leaves are thick as they can be. 
But at fall of night, when the stars come out. 
The old owls begin to move about ; 
And the ivy-bush, like a busy hive, 
Within its leaves is all alive; 
And were you here you would declare, 
That the very bush began to stare. 
For in the dusk of leaves dark-green, 
The owl-eyes look out fixed and keen ; 
North and south, and round about. 
East and west the eyes look out. 
And anon is heard afar and nigh 
How the iv}'-bush sends forth a cry, 
A cry so long, a cry so wild. 
That it wakes, almost, the cradled child ; 
And the coach that comes with its peopled load, 
Man, woman and babe, up the hilly road. 
They hear in amaze the sudden hoot 
That shakes the old bush, branch and root, 
And the caped-up coachman, then says he, 
" In Winter-burn there grows a tree. 
And in this tree more owls abide 
Than in all Winter-burn beside ; 
And every night as we climb this brow, 
The owls hoot out as they 're hooting now!" 
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BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 123 



And when they hoot and when they shout, 

'Tis woe to the wood-mice all about, 

And when the fires of their eyes appear, 

The weak little birds they quake for fear, 

For they know that the owls, with a fierce delight, 

Riot and feast, like lords, at night. 

Oh bush, of ivy-trees the prime, 
Men find thee out at winter time, 
From the distant town through frost and snow 
To the woods of Winter-burn they go; 
And if care were killed by an ivy-bough, 
What a killer of care, old tree, wert thou ! 
And high in the hall, with laugiiter merry. 
They hang thy twigs with their jwwdered berry; 
And the red-gemmed holly they mix also. 
With the spectral branches of misseltoe. 
Rare old tree! and the cottage small 
Is decked as well as the baron's hall, 
For the children's hands are busy and fain 
To dress up the little windo\v*pane, 
And set in the chinks of the rooi-tree wood 
The holly and ivy, green and good. 

'Twere well for us, thou rare old tree, 
Could we gladden the human heart like thee ; 
Like thee and the holly, that thus make gay 
The lowliest cot for a winter's day ! 



MORNING THOUGHTS. 

The summer sun is shining 

Upon a world so bright! 
The dew upon each grassy blade ; 
The golden light, the depth of shade, 
All seem as they were only made 

To minister delight. 

From giant trees, strong branched, 
And all their veined leaves ; 

From little birds that madly sing ; 

From insects fluttering on the wing; 

Ay, from the very meanest thing 
My spirit joy receives. 

I think of angel voices 

When the birds' songs I hear ; 
Of that celestial city, bright 
With jacinth, gold, and chrysolite, 
When, with its blazing pomp of light, 

The morning doth appear ! 

I think of that great River 

That from the Throne flows free ; 
Of weary pilgrims on its brink. 
Who, thirsting, have come down to drink ; 
Of that unfailing Stream I think, 

When earthly streams I see ! 
I think of pain and dying. 

As that which is but nought. 
When glorious morning, warm and bright, 
With all its voices of delight, 
From the chill darkness of the night, 

Like a new life, is brought. 

la 



I think of human sorrow 
But as of clouds that brood 

Upon the bosom of the day. 

And the next moment pass away; 

And with a trusting heart I say 
Thank God, all things are good! 



THE PHEASANT. 

The stock-dove builds in the old oak wood. 

The rook in the elm-tree rears his brood ; 

The owl in a ruin doth hoot and stare ; 

The mavis and merle build everywhere ; 

But not for these will we go to-day, 

'Tis the pheasant that lures us hence away ; 

The beautiful pheasant that loves to be 

Where the young, green birches are waving free. 

Away to the woods with the silvery rind, 
And the emerald tresses afloat on the wind ! 
For 'tis joy to go to those sylvan bowers 
When summer is rich with leaves and flovv-ers; 
And to see, 'mid the growth of all lovely things, 
The joyous pheasant imfold his wings, 
And then cower down, as if to screen 
His gorgeous purple, gold, and green ! 

The streams run on in music low, 

'Twill be joy by their flowery banks to go; 

'T will be joy to come to the calamus beds, 

Where a broken root such odour sheds ; 

And to see how the water-sedge uplifts 

Its spires and crowns — the summer's gifts ; 

To see the loosestrife's purple spear. 

And the wind through the waving reeds to hear. 

Then on through hazelly lanes away 
To the light green fields all clear of hay, 
Where along the thick hedge-side we greet, 
Tall purple vetch and meadow-sweet; 
Past old farm-house and water-mill, 
Where the great colt's-foot grows wild at will ; 
WHiere the water-rat swims calm and cool, 
And pike bask in the deep mill-pool. 

So on and away to the mossy moor, 
Stretching on for many a mile before, 
A far-seen wild, where all around 
Some rare and beautiful thing is found ; 
Green mosses many, and sundew red, 
And the cotton-rush with its plumy head; 
The spicy sweet-gale loved so well. 
And golden wastes of the asphodel ! 

Yet on and on, o'er the springy moss, — 
We have yet the bog-rush bed to cross ; 
And then anigh, all shimmering green 
To the sunny breeze, are the birch-woods seen, — 
Than the green birch-wood a lovelier spot 
In the realms of fairy-land was not ! 
And the pheasant is there all life, all grace. 
The lord of this verdurous dwelling-place. 
133 



124 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Oh! beautiful bird, in thy stately pride. 
Thou wast made in a waste of flowers to hide, 
And to fling to the sun the glorious hues 
Of thy rainbow-gold, thy green and blues! 
Yes, beautiful pheasant, the birch-wood bovvers, 
Rich many-formed leaves, bright-tinted flowers, 
Broad masses of shade, and the sunshine fi-ee. 
In thy gorgeous beauty are meet lor thee ! 



HARVEST-FIELD FLOWERS. 

Come down into the harvest-fields 

This autumn morn with me ; 
For in the pleasant aiitunm-fields 

There 's much to hear and see; 
On yellow slopes of waving corn 

The autumn sun shines clearly ; 
And 't is joy to walk, on days like this, 

Among the bearded barley. 

Within the sunny harvest-fields 

We'll gather flowers enow; 
The poppy red, the marigold. 

The bugles brightly blue; 
We'll gather the white convolvulus 

That opes in the morning early ; 
With a cluster of nuts, an ear of wheat. 

And an ear of the bearded barley. 

Bright over the golden fields of corn 

Doth shine the autumn sky ; 
So let's be merry while we may. 

For time goes hurrying by. 
They took down the sickle from the wall 

When morning dews shone pearly ; 
And the mower whets the ringing scythe 

To cut the bearded barley. 

Come then into the harvest-fields ; 

The robin sings his song; 
The corn stands yellow on the hills. 

And autumn stays not long. 
They '11 carry the sheaves of corn away ; 

They carried to-day so early. 
Along the lanes, with a rustling sound, 

Their loads of the bearded barley. 



THE SEA-GULL. 

On the white sea-gull, the wild sea-gull, 

A joyful bird is he, 
As he lies like a cradled thing at rest. 

In the arms of a sunny sea ! 
The little waves rock to and fro, 

And the white gull lies asleep, 
As the fisher's bark, with breeze and tide, 

Goes merrily over the deep. 
The ship, with her fair sails set, goes by. 

And her people stand to note. 
How the sea-gull sits on the rocking waves 

As still as an anchored boat. 



The sea is fresh, the sea is fair, 

And the sky calm overhead. 
And the sea-gull lies on the deep, deep sea, 

Like a king in his royal bed ! 
Oh the white sea-gull, the bold sea-gull, 

A joyful bird is he. 
Sitting, like a king, in calm repose 

On the breast of the heaving sea! 
The waves leap up, the wild wind blows. 

And the gulls together crowd. 
And wheel about, and madly scream 

To the sea that is roaring loud ; — 
And let the sea roar ever so loud. 

And the winds pipe ever so high. 
With a wilder joy the bold sea-gull, 

Sendeth forth a wilder cry, — 
For the sea-gull he is a darmg bird. 

And he loves with the storm to sail ; 
To ride in the strength of the billowy sea ; 

And to breasl^the driving gale ! 
The little boat she is tossed about. 

Like a sea-weed, to and fro; 
The tall ship reels like a drunken man. 

As the gusty tempests blow. 
But the sea-gull laughs at the pride of man, 

And sails in a wild delight 
On the torn-up breast of the night-black sea. 

Like a fbam-doud, calm and white. 
The waves may rage and the winds may roar. 

But he fears not wreck nor need. 
For he rides the sea, in its stormy strength. 

As a strong man rides his steed ! 

Oh the white sea-gull, the bold sea-gull ! 

He makes on the shore his nest, 
And he tries what the inland fields may be ; 

But he lovelh the sea the best ! 
And away from land, a thousand leagues 

He goes 'mid surging foam ; 
What matter to him is land or shore. 

For the sea is his truest home ! 
And away to the north 'mong ice-rocks stern. 

And among the frozen snow. 
To a sea that is lone and desolate. 

Will the wanton sea-gull go. 
For he careth not for the winter wild. 

Nor those desert-regions chill; 
In the midst of the cold, as on calm, blue seas. 

The sea-gull hath its will ! 
And the dead whale lies on the northern shores, 

And the seal, and the sea-horse grim, 
And the death of the great sea-creature makes 

A full, merry feast for him! 
Oh the wild sea-gull, the bold sea-gull ! 

As he screams in his \vl;eeling flight : 
As he sits on the waves in storm or calm 

All Cometh to him aright ! 
All Cometh to him as he likelh best ; 

Nor any his will gainsay ; 
And he rides on the waves like a bold, young king. 

That was crowned but yesterday ! 

The Gull, notwithstanding the gormandizing and 
rather disgusting character given of it by Bewick, 
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BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



125 



figures beautifully in his inimitable wood-cuts ; giving 
the very spirit of wildness and freshness to his sea- 
side sketches. 

The Gull may occasionally be found far inland, 
domesticated in old-fashioned gardens, where it is an 
indulged and amusing habitant, feeding on slugs and 
worms, and becoming thus a useful assistant to the 
gardener. In this state it seems entirely to throw off 
its wild native character, and assumes a sort of mock- 
heroic style, which is often quite ludicrous. We 
have seen one strutting about the straight alleys of 
such a garden, with the most formal, yet conscious 
air imaginable, glancing first to one side, then to the 
other, evidently aware of your notice, yet pretending 
to be busied about his own concerns. It was impos- 
sible to conceive that this bird, walking " in his dig- 
nified way," upon his two stiff little legs, and so full 
of self-importance, had ever been a free, wild, winged 
creature, wheeling about and screaming in the storm, 
or riding gracefully upon the sunshiny waters. His 
nature had undergone a land-change ; he was trans- 
formed into the patron of poodles, and the conde- 
scending companion of an old black cat. With these 
creatures, belonging to the same place, he was on 
very friendly terms, maintaining, nevertheless, an air 
of superiority over them, which they permitted, 
either out of pure good-nature, or because their sim- 
plicity was imposed upon. They were all frequently 
fed from the same plate, but the quadrupeds never 
presumed to put in their noses till the Gull was satis- 
fied, and to his credit it may be told, that he was not 
insatiable, although a reasonably voracious bird on 
ordinary occasions. 

We saw last summer, also, a Gull well known to 
northern tourists, which for twenty years has inhabit- 
ed one of the inner green-courts at Alnwick Castle, 
and has outlived two or three companions. It is an 
interesting bird, of a venerable appearance; but, as 
it has been described in books, more need not be said 
of it. 

In one of the towers of this same Castle, also, we 
■were shown a pair of perfect bird-skeletons, under a 
glass shade, the history of which is mysterious. They 
are the skeletons of a pair of jackdaws, which had 
built in one of the upper towers of the Castle, and 
had been found in their present state, apparently 
nestled together. From the account given us by the 
porter, an intelligent old man, they appeared not to 
have been discovered in any confined place, where 
they might have died from starvation, but by their 
own tower, on the open roof, as if they had been 
death-stricken aide by side. 



SUMMER WOODS. 

Come ye into the summer-woods ; 

There entereth no annoy ; 
All greenly wave the chestnut leaves, 

And the earth is full of joy. 



I cannot tell you half the sights 

Of beauty you may see, 
The bursts of golden sunshine, 

And many a shady tree. 

There, lightly swung, in bowery glades, 

The honey-suckles twine ; 
There blooms the rose-red campion, 

And the dark-blue columbine. 

There grows the four-leaved plant " true love,' 

In some dusk woodland spot ; 
There grows the enchanter's night-shade. 

And the wood forget-me-not. 

And many a merry bird is there, 

Unscared by lawle.ss men ; 
The blue-winged jay, the wood-pecker. 

And the golden-crested wren. 

Come down and ye shall see them all. 

The timid and the bold ; 
For their sweet life of pleasantness, 

It is not to be told. 

And far within that summer-wood, 

Among the leaves so green, 
There flows a little gurgling brook, 

The brightest e'er was seen. 

There come the little gentle birds. 

Without a fear of ill ; 
Down to the murmuring water's edge. 

And freely drink their fill ! 

And dash about and splash about. 

The merry little things; 
And look askance with bright black eyes, 

And flirt their dripping wings. 

I 've seen the freakish squirrel droj^ 

Down from their leafy tree, 
The little squirrels with the old, — 

Great joy it was lo me ! 

And down unto the running brook, 

I 've seen them nimbly go ; 
And the bright water seemed to speak 

A welcome kind and low. 

The nodding plants they bowed their beads. 

As if, in hearlsome cheer. 
They spake unto those little things, 

" 'Tis merry living here!" 

Oh, how my heart ran o'er with joy ! 

I saw that all was good, 
And how we might glean up delight 

All round us, if we would ! 

And many a wood-mouse dwelleth there. 

Beneath the old wood-shade, 
And all day long has work to do. 

Nor is, of aught, afraid. 

The green shoots grow above their heads. 

And roots so fresh and fine. 
Beneath their feet, nor is there strife 

'Mong them for mine and thine. 
135 



126 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



There is enough for every one, 
And they lovingly agree; 

We might learn a lesson, all of us. 
Beneath the green-wood tree! 



THE MANDRAKE. 

There once was a garden grand and old. 

Its stately walks were trodden by few ; 
And there, in its driest and deepest mould, 

The dark-green, poisonous mandrake grew. 

That garden's lord was a learned man, — 
It is of an ancient time we tell, — 

He was grim and stern, with a visage wan. 
And had books which only he could spell. 

He had been a monk in his younger days. 

They said, and travelled by land and sea, 
And now, in his old, ancestral place. 

He was come to study in privacy. 
A garden it was both large and lone, 

And in it was temple, cave and mound ; 
The trees were with ivy overgrown. 

And the depth of its lake no line had found. 

Some said that the springs of the lake lay deep 

Under the fierce volcano's root ; 
For the water would oft-times curl and leap. 

When the summer air was calm and mute. 

And all along o'er its margin dank 
Hung massy branches of evergreen ; 

And among the pebbles upon the bank 
The playful water-snakes were seen. 

And yew-trees old, in the alleys dim, 
\Vere cut into dragon-shapes of dread ; 

And in midst of shadow, grotesque and grim. 
Stood goat-limbed statues of sullen lead. 

The garden-beds they were long, and all 
With a tangle of flowers were overgrown ; 

And each was screened with an ancient wall, 
Or parapet low of mossy stone. 

And from every crevice and broken ledge 
The harebell blue and the wall-flower sprung ; 

And from the wall, to the water's edge. 
Wild masses of tcndrilled creepers hung; 

For there was a moat outside where slept 
Deep waters with slimy moss grown o'er, 

And a wall and a tower securely kept 
By a ban-dog fierce at a grated door. 

This garden's lord was a scholar wise, 
A scholar wise, with a learned look ; 

He studied by night the starry skies. 
And all day long some ancient book. 

There were lords hard by who lived by spoil, 
But he did the men of war eschew ; 

There were lowly serfs who tilled the soil. 
But with toiling serfs he had nought to do. 



But now and then might with him be seen, 
Two other old men with look profound. 

Who peered 'mong the leaves of the mandrake green 
And lightened with care the soil around. 

For the king was sick and of help had need; 

Or he had a foe whom art must quell. 
So he sent to the learned man with speed 

To gather for him a mandrake-spell. 

And at night when the moon was at the full, 
When the air was still and the stars were out. 

Came the three the mandrake root to pull, 
With the help of the ban-dog fierce and stout. 

Oh, the mandrake-root! and they listened all three, 
For awful sounds, and they s[K)ke no word, 

And when the owl screeched from the hollow tree, 
They said 'twas the mandrake's groan they heard. 

And words they muttered, but what none knew. 

With motion slow of hand and foot ; 
Then into the rave ihe three withdrew. 

And carried with them the mandrake root. 

They all were scholars of high degree. 
So they took the root of the mandrake fell. 

And cut it and carved it hideously. 
And muttered it into a charmed spell. 

Then who had been there, by dawn of day. 
Might have seen Ihe two from the grated door 

Speed forth ; and as sure as they went away, 
The charmed mandrake root they bore. 

And the old lord up in his chamber sat. 

Blessing himself, sedate and mute. 
That he thus could gift the wise and great 

With more than gold — the mandrake root. 

The reverence attached to the mandrake may be 
classed among the very oldest of superstitions, for the 
Hebrews of the palriarchial ages regarded it as a 
plant of potent influence. The Greeks, who held it 
in the same estimation, called it after Circe, their cel- 
ebrated witch, and also after Atropos, the eldest of 
the three Fates. The Romans adopted the same 
opinions respecting it, and Pliny relates the ceremo- 
nies which were used in obtaining the root. 

In the middle ages, when the traditional supersti- 
tions of the ancients were grafted upon the popular 
ignorance, the mandrake was a powerful engine in 
the hands of the crafty. 

It was believed that when the mandrake was taken 
from the earth, it uttered a dreadful shriek; and that 
any human being who was presumptuous enough to 
remove it, was suddenly struck dead. Dogs, there- 
fore, were used fiir this purpose. The earth was 
carefully lightened, and the plant fastened to the ani- 
mal's tail; he was then made to draw it forth, and 
pay whatever penalty the demon of the plant thought 
fit to impose upon the disturber of his rest. The pre- 
tenders to medical skill in those days made great pro- 
fit by the little hideous images which they fashioned 
out of the mandrake root, and sold as charms against 
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127 



every kind of sickness and misfortune. They were 
brought over from Germany in the reign of Henry 
the VIII., under the name of Abrunes, and by the 
help of certain pretended magical words, the know- 
ledge of which the credulous obtained at a great 
price, were said to increase whatever money was 
placed near them. It was believed, also, at that time, 
that the mandrake was produced from the decaying 
flesh of malefactors hung upon the gibbet, and was 
to be found only in such situations. Dr. Turner, who 
lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth, declares, that 
he had divers times taken up the roots of the man- 
drake, but had never found them under the gallows; 
nor of the form which the pedlars, who sold them in 
boxes, pretended them to have been. This form was 
that of an ugly little man, with a long beard hanging 
down to his feet. Gerard, the herbalist, also, who 
wrote thirty years later, used many endeavours to 
convince the world of the impositions practised upon 
them, and states, that he and his servant frequently 
dug up the roots without receiving harm, or hearing 
any shrieks whatever. 

The mandrake grows naturally in Spain, Portugal, 
Italy, and the Levant, and it is also indigenous to 
China. It was introduced into this country about 
1564. It is a handsome plant, and would, in particu- 
lar situations, be ornamental to our gardens, indepen- 
dent of the strange, old associations connected with 
it, which would always make it an interesting object. 
I have seen if, however, only in one garden, that of 
the King of the Belgians, at Claremont. 

"It is," says Mr. Phillips, in his pleasant garden 
companion, the Flora Historica, from which work the 
above historical notices of the mandrake have been 
principally taken, "a species of deadly nightshade, 
which grows with a long taper root like the parsnip, 
running three or four feet deep ; these roots are fre- 
quently forked, which assisted to enable the old 
quacks to give it the shape of a monster. This plant 
does not send up a stalk, but, immediately from the 
crown of the root arises a circle of leaves, which at 
first stand erect, but when grown to their full size, 
which is about a fi)ot in length and five inches broad, 
of an ovate-lanceolate shape, waved at the edges, 
these spread open and lie on the ground ; they are 
of a dark-green, and give out a fetid smell. About 
the month of April the flowers come out among the 
leaves, each on a scape about three inches long ; they 
are of a bell shape with a long tube, and spread out 
into a five-cleft corolla. The colour is of an herba- 
ceous white, but frequently has a tinge of purple. 
The flower is succeeded by a globular soft berry, 
when full grown, as large as a common cherry, but 
of a yellowish-green colour, when ripe and full of 
pulp, intermixed with numerous renifijrm seeds." 

If any of my readers should wish to cultivate this 
plant of " old renown," they should do it by sowing 
the seed in autumn, soon afier it is ripe ; as the seed 
kept till spring seldom produces plants. It shoidd be 
set in a light, dry soil, and of a good depth, so that 
the root may not be chilled or obstructed ; and care 
should be taken not to disturb it when it has once 
obtained a considerable size. 

12 * S § 



THE HEDGE. HOG. 

Thou poor little English porcupine. 
What a harassed and weary life is thine! 
And thou art a creature meek and mild. 
That wouldst not harm a sleeping child. 

Thou scarce can'st stir from thy tree-root, 
But thy foes are up in hot pursuit; 
Thou might'st be an asp, or horned snake, 
Thou poor little martyr of the brake I 

Thou scarce can'st put out that nose of thine ; 
Thou can'st not show a single spine. 
But the urchin-rabble are in a rout. 
With terrier curs to hunt thee out. 

The poor Hedgehog! one would think he knew 
His foes so many, his friends so few. 
For when he comes out, he 's in a fright, 
And hurries again to be out of sight. 

How unkind the world must seem to him. 
Living under the thicket dusk and dim. 
And getting his living among the roots. 
Of the insects small, and dry hedge-fruits. 

How hard it must be, to be kicked about. 
If by chance his prickly back peep out; 
To be all his days misunderstood, 
When he could not harm us if he would I 

He's an innocent thing, living under the blarae 
That he merits not, of an evil name ; 
He is weak and small, — and all he needs. 
Lies imder the hedge among the weeds. 

He robs not man of rest or food. 
And all that he asks is quietude ; 
To be left by him, as a worthless stone. 
Under the dry hedge-bank alone I 

Oh, poor little English porcupine, 
What a troubled and weary life is thine I 
I would that my pity thy foes could quell, 
For thou art ill-used, and meanest well! 



THE CUCKOO. 

" Pee ! pee ! pee!" says the merry Pee-Bird ; 

And as soon as the children hear it, 
"The Cuckoo 's a-coming," they say, "for I heard, 
Up in his tree the merry Pee-Bird, 

And he'll come in three days, or near it!" 
The days go on, one, two, three ; 
And the little bird singeth "pee! pee! pee!" 
Then on the morrow, 't i.s very true. 
They hear the note of the old Cuckoo ; 
Up in the elm-tree, through the day. 
Just as in gone years, shouting away ; 

"Cuckoo," the Cuckoo dolh cry. 

And the little boys mock him as they go by. 

The wood-pecker laughs to hear the strain. 
And says " the old fellow is come back again ; 
He sitteih again on the very same 'fee. 
And he talks of himself again! — he! he! he!" 
137 



128 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The stock-doves together begin to coo 
When Ihcy hear the voice of the old cuckoo ; 
" Ho I lio I" say they, " he did not find 
Those far-away countries quite to his mind, 
So he 's come again to see what he can do 
With sucking the small birds' eggs, coo-coo!" 
The black-bird, and throstle, and loud missel-cock, 
They sing altogether, the Cuckoo to mock ; 
" What want we with him ? let him stay over sea !" 
Sings the bold, piping reed-sparrow, "want him? 
not we !" 
" Cuckoo !" the Cuckoo shouts still, 
"I care not for you, let j'ou rave as you will !" 
"Cuckoo!" the Cuckoo doth cry. 
And the little boys mock him as they go by. 

" Hark ! hark !" sings the chiffchafT, " hark ! hark !" 

says the lark. 
And tlie white-throats and buntings all twitter 

" iiark! hark !" 
The wron and the hedge-sparrow hear it anon. 
And " hark! hark!" in a moment shouts every one. 
"Hark! hark! — that's the Cuckoo there, shouting 

amain ! 
Bless our lives ! why that egg-sucker 's come back 
again !" 
" Cuckoo !" the Cuckoo shouts still, 
" I shall taste of your eggs, let you rave as you 

will !" 
" Cuckoo !" the Cuckoo doth cry, 
And the little boys mock him as they go by. 

The water-hens iiear it, the rail and the smew. 
And they say, — "Why on land there's a pretty 

to-do ! 
Sure tlie Cuckoo 's come back, what else can be the 

matter ? 
The pyes and the jays are all making a clatter!" 
" Hark ! hark !" says the woodcock, " I hear him 

myself, 
Shouting up in the elm-tree, the comical elf!" 
" Hark ! hark !" cries the widgeon, " and I hear him 

too. 
Shouting loudly as ever, that self-same Cuckoo !" 
" Vv'eil, well," says the wild duck, " what is it to us; 
I 've no spite 'gainst the Cuckoo ; why make such a 

fuss? 
Let him shout as he listeth — he comes over sea — 
Am! his French may be French, 't is no matter to me ; 
I have no spite against him, my soul 's not so narrow, 
I leave all such whims to the tomtit and sparrow !" 
" Cuckoo !" the Cuckoo shouts still, 
" You may all hold j'our peace, I shall do as I will !" 
" Cuckoo !" the Cuckoo doth cry. 
And the little boys mock him as they go by. 



THE HORNET. 

So, there at last I 've found you, my famous old fel- 
low ! 

Ay, and mighty grand besides, in your suit of red 
and yellow.' 



I often have heard talk of you, but ne'er saw you 

before. 
And there you 're standing sentinel at the hornet- 
castle-door ! 
Well, what a size you are ! just like a great wasp- 
king! 
What a solemn buzz you make, now you 're upon the 

wing ! 
My word ! I do not wonder that people fear your 

sting ! 
So ! so ! — Don't be so angry ! Why do you come at me 
With a swoop and with a hum, — Is't a crime to look 

at ye ? 
See where the testy fellow goes whiz into the hole, 
And brings out from the hollow tree his fellows in a 

shoal. 
Hark! what .-xn awful, hollow boom! How fierce 

they come ! I 'd rather 
Just quietly step back, and stand from them a little 

farther. 
There, now, the hornet-host is retreating to its den. 
And so, good Mr. Sentinel — lo ! here I am again! 
Well ! how the little angry wretch doth stamp and 

raise his head, 
And flirt his wings, and seem to say, " Come here — 

I '11 sting you dead !" 
No, thank you, fierce Sir Hornet, — that 's not at all 

inviting : 
But what a pair of shears the rascal has for biting ! 
What a pair of monstrous shears to carry at his head! 
If wasp or fly come in their gripe, that moment they 

are dead ! 
There ! bite in two the whip-lash, as we poke it at 

your chin ! 
See, how he bites ! but it is tough, and again he 

hurries in. 
Ho ! ho ! we soon shall have tlie whol^ of his vin- 
dictive race. 
With a hurry and a scurry, all flying in our face. 
To potter in a Hornet's nest, is a proverb old and 

good. 
So it 's just as well to take the hint, and retreat into 

the W'ood. 
Oh ! here behind this hazel-bush we safely may look 

out. 
And see what all the colony of hornets is about. 
Why what a furious troop it is, how fierce they seem 

to be. 
As they fly now in the sunshine, now in shadow of 

the tree ! 
And yet they 're noble insects! their bodies red and 

yellow. 
And large almost as little birds, how richly toned and 

mellow. 
And these old woods, so full of trees, all hollow and 

decayed, 
Must be a perfect paradise, for the hornet legions , 

made. 
Secure from village lads, and from gardener's watch- 
ful eyes, 
They may build their paper-nests, and issue for sup- 
plies 

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129 



To orchards or to gardens, for plum, and peach, and 

pear, — 
With wasp, fly, ant, and earwig, they ']! have a 

giant's share. 
And you, stout Mr. Sentinel, there standing at the 

door, 
Though Homer said in his time, " the hornet's soul 

all o'er," — 
You 're not so very spiritual, but soon some sunny 

morning 
I may find you in a green-gage, and give you a little 

warning. 
Or feeding in a Windsor pear; or at the juicy stalk 
Of my Negro-boy, grand dahlia, — too heavy much 

to walk ; 
Ay, very much too heavy, — that juicy stemdeceives, — 
" Makes faint with too much sweet such heavy- 
winged thieves." 
Too heavy much to walk, — then, pray, how can you 

fly? 
No, there you'll drop upon the ground, and there 

you 're doomed to die ' 

The Hornet is an insect that every one has heard 
of, because the fearful effects of its sting and ils 
fierceness are proverbial ; but it is by no means 
common in many parts of the country. In the mid- 
land counties hornets are often talked of, but rarely 
seen. We have lived in several of the midland 
counties, and seen a good deal of them, but never 
saw a hornet there. Since coming to reside in Sur- 
rey, we have found plenty of them. They come 
buzzing into the house, and are almost as common 
in the garden as wasps themselves, devouring the 
fruits above-mentioned, and also as voracious of the 
green, tender bark of the dahlia, as ants are of the 
juice of the yucca. They peel the young branches 
with their nippers or shears, as a rabbit peels a 
young tree ; and wasps, and the great blue-bottle and 
other flies follow in their train, and suck its juice 
greedily. In common, too, with the wasps, which by 
their side appear very diminutive insects, they gorge 
themselves so with the pulp of fruit as to drop 
heavily on the earth on being suddenly disturbed, 
and are then easilj' destroyed. They freq\ienlly 
make their nests in the thatch of cottages and out- 
buildings, where it is difficult to destroy them, as in 
such situations, neither fire, sulphur, nor gunpowder 
cgfi be used, and producing large swarms there, 
they are dangerous and devouring neighbours. 

On Bookham Common, a pleasant wide tract, over- 
grown vviih trees, principally oaks, and resembling a 
Ibrest with its fern and green turfy glades, much 
more than a common, we found two nests within a 
few yards of each other, in two hollow trees, where 
the sentinel, and indeed the whole swarms, behaved 
themselves as above represented. Whether three of 
these insects are sufficient to kill a horse, as the old 
country saying avers, is doubtful ; but, from their 
size, the irritability of their nature, and the appear- 
ance of their siings, they are very formidable crea- 
tures indeed. 



THE USE OF FLOWERS. 

God might have bade the earth bring Ibrth 

Enough for great and small, 
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, 

Without a flower at all. 

We might have had enough, enough 

For every want of ours. 
For luxury, medicine and toil, 

And yet have had no flowers. 

The ore within the mountain mine 

Requireth none to grow ; 
Nor doth it need the lotus-flower 

To make the river flow. 

The clouds might give abundant rain ; 

The nightly dews might fall. 
And the herb that keepeth life in man 

Might yet have drunk them all. 

Then wheref()re, wherefore were they made. 
All dyed with rainbow-light, 

All fiishioned with supremest grace 
Upspringing day and night: — 

Springing in valleys green and low, 
And on the mountains high, 

And in the silent wilderness 
Where no man passes by ? 

Our outward life requires them not — 
Then wherefore had they birth ? — 

To minister delight to man. 
To beautify the earth; 

To comfort man — to whisper hope. 

Whene'er his faith is dim. 
For who so careth for the flowers 

Will much more care for him ! 



THE CARRION-CROW. 

On a splintered bough sits the Carrion-crow, 
And first he croaks loud and then he croaks low 
Twenties of years ago that bough 
Was leafless and barkless as it is now. 

It is on the top of an ancient oak 
That the Carrion-crow has perched to croak ; 
In the gloom of a forest the old oak grows, — 
When it wtis young there 's nobody knows. 

'Tis but half alive, and up in the air 
You may see its branches splintered and bare; 
You may see them plain in the cloudy night. 
They are so skeleton-like and white. 

The old oak trunk is gnarled and grey. 
But the wood has rotted all away. 
Nothing remains but a cave-like shell. 
Where bats, and spiders, and millipedes dwell; 
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130 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And the tawny owl and the noisy daw, 

In many a hollow and many a flaw ; 

By night or by day, were you there about, 

You might see them creep in, or see them creep out. 

And there, on the top of that ancient oak. 
The Carrion-crow he sits to croak ; — 
The words of his croaking I fain would know ; 
What does he say — that Carrion-crow ? 

He says, and he 's merry as he can be, — 
" To-night there 's a famous feast for me ; 
For me and my mate so beautiful. 
Where the hound lies dead by the forest-pool. 

"His master he knows not where he lies. 
So we shall go down to peck out his eyes ; 
His master he mourneth, early and late ; — 
But 'tis joy to me and my beautiful mate ! 

" And the miller last week he killed his mare, — 
She lies in a hollow, I know where, — 
There 's an ancient cross of crumbling stone 
Down in that hollow dank and lone ! 

" The mare was blind, and lame, and thin. 

And she had not a bone but it pierced her skin; 

For twenty years did she come and go, — 

We '11 be with her anon !" croaked the Carrion-crow. 

" And there bleats a lamb by the thundering linn. 
The mother ewe she has tumbled in ; 
Three days ago and the lamb was strong, 
Now he is weak with fasting long. 

"All day long he moans and calls. 
And over his mother the water falls ; 
He can see his mother down below. 
But why she comes not he does not know. 

" His little heart doth pine away. 
And fainter and fainter he bleats to-day ; 
So loud o'er the linn the waters brawl. 
That the shepherd he hears him not at all ! 

"Twice I 've been down to look at him. 
But he glanced on me his eyeballs dim ; 
And among the stones so cold and bare, 
I saw the raven watching there. 

" He'll have the first peck at his black eye, 
And taste of his heart before it die : — 
Aha ! though the hungry raven is there. 
As soon as he 's ready we '11 have our share !" 

These are the words of the Carrion-crow, 
As he first croaks loud and then croaks low. 
And the spiders and millipedes hear him croak. 
As he sits up aloft on the ancient oak. 



BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 

Buttercups and Daisies — 

Oh the pretty flowers. 
Coming ere the spring time 

To tell of sunny hours. 



While the trees are leafless ; 

While the fields are bare. 
Buttercups and Daisies 

Spring up here and there. 

Ere the snow-drop peepeth; 

Ere the crocus bold; 
Ere the early primrose 

Opes its paly gold. 
Somewhere on a sunny bank 

Buttercups are bright; 
Somewhere 'mong the frozen grass 

Peeps the Daisy white. 

Little hardy flowers 

Like to children poor. 
Playing in their sturdy health 

By their mother's door ; 
Purple with the north-wind, 

Yet alert and bold, 
Fearing not and caring not. 

Though they be a-cold ! 

What to them is weather! 

What are stormy showers ! 
Buttercups and Daisies 

Are these human flowers ! 
He who gave them hardship 

And a life of care. 
Gave them likewise hardy strength 

And patient hearts, to bear. 

Welcome yellow buttercups, 

Welcome daisies while. 
Ye are in my spirit 

Visioned, a delight ! 
Coming ere the spring-time 

Of sunny hours to tell — 
Speaking to our hearts of Him 

Who doeth all things well. 



THE TITMOUSE, OR BLUE-CAP. 

The merry Titmouse is a comical fellow ; 
He weareth a plumage of purple and yellow. 
Barred over with black, and wnh white interlaced; 
Depend on't, the Titmouse has excellent taste. 

And he, like his betters of noble old blood, 
Keeps up, with great spirit, a family feud ; 
A feud with the owl ; — and why ? would you know ; 
An old, by-gone quarrel of ages ago : — 

Perhaps in the ark might be taken offence, — 

But I know not, indeed, of the where and the 

whence ; — 
Only this is quite true, — let them meet as they may, 
Having quarrelled long since, they would quarrel to- 
day. 

But we 'II leave them to settle this ancient aflfair. 
And now look at his nest, made with exquisite care. 
Of lichen, and moss, and the soft downy feather. 
And the web of the spider to keep it together. 
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BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



131 



Is a brick out of place by your window ? — don't send 
For the man with the trowel the fracture to mend, 
Through the dry months of summer, just leave it 

alone. 
For the poor little Titmouse has made it his own. 

Peep in now, and look at that wonderful labour ; 
And be glad to have near you so merry a neighbour; 
His work unto hitn is no trouble — behold 
For one moment his motions, so tricksy and bold. 

How he twists, how he turns with a harlequin grace ! 
He can't lift a feather without a grimace ; 
He carries the moss in his bill with an air ; 
And he laughs at the spider he robs of his lair. 

I See his round, burly head, that is like a Friar Tuck, 
And his glancing black eye that is worthy of Puck; 
Saw you ever a merrier creature than he ? 
Oh, no ! — make him welcome, as welcome can be ! 

His nest now is finished with fine cobweb thread. 
And the eggs are laid in it, white speckled with red ; 
Now knock at the wall, or rap loud on the pane, 
Hark ! what is that rapping so briskly again ! 

'Tis the blithe mother-bird, all alive and alert, 
As her mate, every whit, is she comic and pert ; 
Rap you once, — she raps twice; — she has nothing 

to do, 
I But to keep her eggs warm, and be neighbourly too ! 

Oh, what ! did you say that the Titmouse was steal- 
ing. 

That he ate your pear-buds while he shammed to be 
reeling ; 

And nipped off the apricot-bloom in his fun? — 

And that shortly you '11 end his career with a gun ! 

Oh! hold back your hand, — 'twere a deed to repent ; 
Of your blame the poor fellow is quite innocent, — 
Stand back for one moment — anon he '11 be here. 
He beheves you his friend, and he thinks not of fear. 

Here he comes ! — see how droUy he looketh askew ; — 
And now hangs head downward ; now glances on 

you! 
Be not rash, though he light on your apricot-bough, — 
Though he touches a bud, — there, he touches it now ! 

There, he 's got what he wanted, and off he has 

flown ! — 
Now look at the apricot bud, — is it gone ? 
Not the apricot bud, — but the grub that was in it! — 
You may thank him, — he does you a service each 

minute. 

Then love the poor Titmouse, and welcome him too. 
Great beauty is there in his yellow and blue ; 
He 's a fine cheerful fellow — so let him be free 
Of your garden — to build in your wall or your tree! 



SUNSHINE. 



I LOVE the sunshine everywhere. 
In wood and field and glen; 

I love it in the busy haunts 
Of town-imprisoned men. 



I love it when it streameth in 

The humble cottage door, 
And casts the chequered casement shade 

Upon the red-brick floor. 

I love it where the children lie 
Deep in the clovery grass. 

To watch among the twining roots 
The gold-green beetles pass. 

I love it on the breezy sea. 
To glance on sail and oar. 

While the great waves, like molten glass, 
Come leaping to the shore. 

I love it on the mountain-tops. 

Where lies the thawless snow. 

And half a kingdom, bathed in light, 
Lies stretching out below. 

And when it shines in forest-glades. 
Hidden, and green, and cool. 

Through mossy boughs and veined leaves. 
How is it beautful! 

How beautiful on little stream, 
When Sim and shade at play. 

Make silvery meshes, while the brook 
Goes singing on its way. 

How beautiful, where dragon-flies 

Are wondrous to behold, 
With rainbow wings of gauzy pearl. 

And bodies blue and gold ! 

How beautiful, on harvest slopes. 

To see the sunshine lie ; 
Or on the paler reaped fields. 

Where yellow shocks stand high ! 

Oh, yes! I love the sunshine! 

Like kindness or like mirth, 
Upon a human countenance, 

Is sunshine on the earth ! 

Upon the earth ; upon the sea ; 

And through the crystal air, 
Or piled-up cloud ; the gracious sun 

Is glorious everywhere ! 



THE ELEPHANT. 

Elephant, thou sure must be 
Of the Titan progeny ; 
One of that old race that sleep. 
In the fossil mountains deep! 
Elephant, thou must be one ! — 
Kindred to the Mastodon, — 
One that didst in friendship mix 
With the huge Megalonix; 
With the Mammoth hadst command 
O'er the old-world forest-land. 
Thou, those giant ferns didst see. 
Taller than the tallest tree ; 

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132 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And with up-turned trunk didst browse, 
On the reed-palm's lowest boughs ; 
And didst see, upcurled from light, 
The ever-sleeping ammonite ; 
And those dragon- worms at play 
In the waters old and grey! 

Tell me, creature, in what place. 

Thou, the Noah of thy race. 

Wast preserved when death was sent 

Like a raging element. 

Like a whirlwind passing by, — 

In the twinkling of an eye, 

Leaving mother earth forlorn 

Of her mighty eldest-born; — 

Turning all her life to stone 

With one universal groan! 

In what cavern drear and dark. 

Elephant, hast thou thine ark? 

Dost thou in thy memory hold 

Record of that tale untold ? 

If thou do, I pray thee tell. 

It were worth the knowing well. 

Elephant, so old and vast. 
Thou a kindly nature hast; 
Grave thou art, and strangely wise. 
With observant, serious eyes. 
Somewhat in thy brain must be 
Of an old sagacity. 
Thou art solemn, wise and good ; 
Thou livest not on streaming blood ; 
Thou, and all thine ancient frere. 
Were of natures unsevere ; 
Preying not on one another ; 
Nourished by the general mother 
Who gave forests thick and tall. 
Food and shelter for you all. 

Elephant, if thou hadst been 
Like the tiger fierce and keen. 
Like the lion of the brake. 
Or the deadly rattle-snake. 
Ravenous as thou art strong. 
Terror would to thee belong ; 
And before thy mates and thee. 
All the earth would desert be ! 
But instead, thou yield's! thy will. 
Tractable, and peaceful still ; 
Full of good intent, and mild 
As a humble little child; 
Serving with obedience true. 
Aiding, loving, mourning too; 
For each noble sentiment 
In thy good, great heart is blent! 



THE WILD SWAN. 

Fair flows the river. 

Smoothly gliding on ; 
Green grow the bulrushes 

Around the stately swan. 



What an isle of beauty 

The noble bird hath formed. 

The greenest trees and stateliest 
Grow all the isle around. 

Low bend the branches 

In the water bright. 
Up comes the swan sailing, 

Plumy all and white. 
Like a ship at anchor. 

Now he lies at rest. 
And little waves seem daintily 

To play about his breast. 

Wild bird of beauty. 

Strong, and glad, and free ! 
Dwelling on these waters, — 

How pleasant it must be ! 
Like a gleam of sunshine 

In shadow passing on, — 
Like a wreath of snow, thou art. 

Wild and graceful swan ! 

Thick grow the flowers 

'Neath the chestnut shade ; 
Green grow the bulrushes 

Where thy nest is made : 
Lovely ye, and loving, too, 

The mother bird and thee. 
Watching o'er your cygnet brood, 

Beneath the river tree. 

Kings made laws a-many. 

Laws both stern and strong, 
In the days of olden time. 

You to keep from wrong ; 
And o'er their palace-waters 

Ye went, a gallant show. 
And Surrey and his Geraldine, 

Beheld ye sailing slow. 

Tell me. Swan, I pray thee. 

Art of that high race. 
Or a sylvan creature 

From some far, lone place ? 
Saw ye in woody Athelney, 

True Alfred's care and pain. 
Or, riding out among his men. 

Good King Canute the Dane ? 

No, from 'mid the icebergs. 

Through long ages piled. 
Sometime ye were driven 

By the winter wild ; 
From where the ermine hunters. 

On their far journeys go ; 
From where the rein-deer sledges speed 

Over the wastes of snow ; 

From northern wildernesses. 

Wild, and lone, and drear. 
Ice-lakes, cold and gleaming. 

Ye have hastened here. 
The pleasant streams of England 

Your homeward flight have stayed. 
And here among the bulrushes 

Your English nest is made. 
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^IRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



133 



THE MILL-STREAM. 

Long trails of cistus-flowere 

Creep on the rocky hill ; 
And beds of strong spear-mint 

Grow round about the mill ; 
And from a mountain tarn above, 

As peaceful as a dream, 
Like to child unruly, 
Though schooled and counselled truly, 

Foams down the wild mill-stream! 
The wild mill-stream it dasheth, 

In merriment away. 
And keeps the miller and his son 

So busy all the day ! 

Into the mad mill-stream 

The mountain-roses fall ; 
And fern and adder's tongue 

Grow on the old mill-wall. 
The tarn is on the upland moor. 

Where not a leaf doth grow ; 
And through the mountain-gashes, 
The merry mill-stream dashes 

Down to the sea below : 
But, in the quiet hollows, 

The red trout groweth prime. 
For the miller and the miller's son 

To angle when they 've time. 

Then fair befall the stream 

That turns the mountain-mill ; 
And fair befall the narrow road 

That windeth up the hill ! 
And good luck to the countryman. 

And to his old grey mare. 
That upward toileth steadily. 
With meal-sacks laden heavily. 

In slorm as well as fair .'. 
And good luck to the miller. 

And to the miller's son ; 

And ever may the mill-wheel turn 

While mountain-waters run ! 



SUMMMER. 

They may boast of the spring-time when flowers are 

the fairest, 
And birds sing by thousands on every green tree ; 
They may call it the loveliest, the greenest, the 

rarest ; — 
I But tlie summer 's the season that 's dearest to me ! 

'"or the brightness of sunshine ; the depth of the 
shadows ; 
The crystal of waters ; the fulness of green, 
Vnd the rich flowery growth of *ae old pasture 
meadows. 
In the glory of summer can only be seen. 

)h, the joy of the green-wood ! I love to be in it, 
And list to the hum of the never-still bees, 

Ind to hear the sweet voice of the old mother linnet, 
Calling unto her young 'mong the leaves of the trees ! 



To see the red squirrel frisk hither and thither. 
And the water-rat plunging about in his mirth ; 

And the thousand small lives that the warm summer 
weather. 
Calls forth to rejoice on the bountiful earth ! 

Then the mountains, how fair ! to the blue vault of 
heaven 
Towering up in the sunshine, and drinking the 
light, 
While adown their deep chasms, all splintered and 
riven, 
Fall the far-gleaming cataracts silvery white ! 

And where are the flowers that in beauty are glow- 
ing 
In the garden and fields of the young, merry spring, 
Like the mountain-side wilds of the yellow broom 
blowing, 
And the old forest pride, the red wastes of the ling? 

Then the garden, no longer 'tis leafless and chilly. 
But warm with the sunshine and bright with the 
sheen 

Of rich flowers, the moss rose and the bright tiger-lily, 
Barbaric in pomp as an Ethiop Queen. 

Oh, the beautiful flowers, all colours combining. 
The larkspur, the pink, and the sweet mignionette, 

And the blue fleur-de-lis, in the warm sunlight shin- 
ing. 
As if grains of gold in its petals were set ! 

Yes, the summer, — the radiant summer's the fairest, 
For green-woods and mountains, for meadows and 
bowers. 

For waters, and fruits, and for flowers the rarest. 
And for bright shining butterflies, lovely as flowers i 



THE FALCON. 

Hark! hark! the merry warden's horn 
Far o'er the wooded hills is borne. 
Far o'er the slopes of ripening corn. 

On the free breeze away ! 
The bolts are drawn ; the bridge is o'or 
The sullen moat, — and steeds a score 
Stand saddled at the caslle-door. 

For 'tis a merry day ! 

With braided hair, of gold or jet. 
There 's many a May and Margaret, 
Before her stately mirror set. 

With waiting-woman by; 
There 's scarlet cloak, and hat and hood ; 
And riding-dress of camlet good. 
Green as the leaf within the wood, 

To shroud those ladies high. 

And presently they are arrayed, 

And plaits are smoothed and folds are laid, 

And all the merry gabble stayed 

That showered down like rain ; 
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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And down the stately stairs they go, 
Where dainty pages stand a-row, 
To greet them with obeisance low, 
And follow in the train. 

And then into the castle-hall, 

Come crowding gallant knights and tali, 

Equipped as for a festival, 

For they will hawk to-day. 
And then outbreaks a general din 
From those without, as those within 
Upon the terrace-steps are seen. 

In such a bright array! 

The kennelled hounds' long bark is heard ; 
The falconer talking to his bird; 
The neighing steeds ; the angry word 

Of grooms impatient there. 
But soon the bustle is dismissed; — 
The falconer sets on every wrist 
A hooded hawk, that 's stroked and kissed 

By knight and lady fair. 

And sitting in their saddles free. 
The brave, the fair of high degree. 
Forth rides that gallant company. 

Each with a bird on hand ; 
And falconers with their hawking-gear, 
And other birds bring up the rear; 
And country-folk from fur and near; 

Fall in and join the band. 

And merrily thus in shine and shade. 
Gay glancing through the forest glade, 
On rides the noble cavalcade. 

To moorlands wild and grey; 
And then the noble sport is high! 
The jess is loosed, the hood thrown by ; 
And leurre the jolly falconers cry; 
And wheeling round the falcons fly 

Impatient for their prey. 

A moment and the quarry 's ta'en ; 
The falconers' cry sounds forth amain ; 
The true hawk soars and soars again. 

Nor once the game is missed ! 
And thus the jocund day is spent, 
In jolly sport and merriment: 
And baron bold were well content. 
To fell his wood, and pawn his rent 

For the hawk upon his wrist ! 

Oh gay goshawk and tercel bold, 
Then might ye rule it as ye " wold ;" 
Then sate ye on a perch of gold. 

And kings were your compeers! 
But that was in the days gone by ; 
The days of Norman chivalr}'. 
When the low crouched unto the high ; — 

The times of other years ! 

Oh gay goshawk, your days were when 
Came down at night the ruffian men. 
To slay the sleeping children then 
Lying in London Tower ; 



Yours were the days of civil feud ; 
Of Rufus slain within the wood ; 
Of servile John ; of Robin Hood ; 

or Woodstock's bloody bower! 

Oh, gay goshawk, you but belong 
To troubadour and minstrel song ; 
To shirt of mail and hauberk strong 

To moat and castle-wall ; 
To serf and baron, page and dame ; 
To abbot sleek, as spaniel tame ; 
To kings who could not sign their name ; 

To times of wrong and thrall ! 

Times are not now as they were then ; 

Ours is a race of different men. 

Who loathe the sword and love the pen ; 

For right, not rapine, bold. 
No more, as then, the ladies bright 
Work tapestry-work from morn till night ; 
The very children read and write. 

Like learned clerks of old-! 

Oh, Falcon proud, and goshawk gay. 
Your pride of place has passed away ; 
The lone wood is your home by day. 

Your resting perch by night ; 
The craggy rock your castle-tower ; 
The gay green-wood your ladies' bovver ; 
Your own wild will, the master power 

That can control your flight ! 

Yet, noble bird, old fame is thine ; 
Still livest thou in the minstrel's line ; 
Still in old pictures art the sign 

Of high and pure degree ; 
And still, with kindling hearts we read 
How barons came to Runymede, 
Falcon on wrist, to do the deed, 

That made all Enaland free! 



THE CHILD AND THE FLOWERS. 

Put up thy work, dear mother; 

Dear mother come with me, 
For I 've found within the garden, 

The beautiful sweet-pea ' 

And rows of stalely hollyhocks 

Down by the garden-wall. 
All yellow, white, and crimson, 

So many-hued and tall ! 

And bending on their stalks, mother, 

Are roses white and red ; 
And pale-stPHimed balsams all a-blow, 

On every garden-bed. 

Put up thy work. I pray thee. 

And come out, mother dear! 

We used to buy these flowers, 
But they are growing here ! 
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BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



135 



Oh, mother! little Amy 

Would have loved these flowers to see ; - 
Dost remember how we tried to get 

For her a pink sweet-pea? 

Dost remember how she loved 

Those rose-leaves pale and sere ? 

I wish she had but lived to see 
The lovely roses here! 

Put up thy work, dear mother, 
And wipe those tears away! 

And come into the garden 
Before 'tis set of day ! 



THE FLAX-FLOWER. 

O the little flax-flower, 

It groweth on the hill, 
And, be the breeze awake or sleep, 

It never standeth still. 
It groweth, and it groweth fast; 

One day it is a seed, 
And then a little grassy blade. 

Scarce better than a weed. 
But then out comes the flax-flower, 

As blue as is the sky ; 
And "'tis a dainty little thing!" 

We say, as we go by. 

Ah, 'tis a goodly little thing. 

It groweth for the poor, 
And many a peasant blesseth it. 

Beside his cottage-door. 
He thinketh how those slender stems 

That shimmer in the sun, 
Are rich for him in web and woof, 

And shortly shall be spun. 
He thinketh how those tender flowers, 

Of seed will yield him store ; 
And sees in thought his next year's crop 

Blue shining round his door. 

Oh, the little flax-flower! 

The mother, then says she, 
" Go pull the thyme, the healh, the fern 

But let the flax-flower be ! 
It groweth for the children's sake. 

It groweth for our own ; 
There are flowers enough upon the hill. 

But leave the flax alone ! 
The farmer hath his fields of wheat, 

Much Cometh to his share; 
We have this little plot of flax. 

That we have tilled with care. 

" Our squire he hath the holt and hill, 
Great halls and noble rent; 

We only have the flax-field, 
Yet therewith are content. 

We watch it morn, we watch it night. 
And when the stars are out, 
13 T 



The good man and the little ones. 

They pace it round about ; 
For it we wish the sun to shine. 

For it the rain to fall ; 
Good lack ! for who is poor doth make 

Great count of what is small!" 

Oh, the goodly flax-flower ! 

It groweth on the hill. 
And, be the breeze awake or sleep. 

It never standeth still ! 
It seemeth all astir with life. 

As if it loved to thrive ; 
As if it had a merry heart 

Within its stem alive ! 
Then fair befall the flax-field, 

And may the kindly showers. 
Give strength unto its shining stem. 

Give seed unto its flowers ! 

It is so rare a thing now-a-days to see flax grown 
in any quantity, that my English readers will not feel 
the full force of the above little poem. The English 
cottager has not often ground which he can use for 
this purpose ; and, besides, he can purchase calico 
for the wear of his family at a much cheaper cost 
than he could grow flax. Nor is the English woman 
" handy" at such matters. She would think it a 
great hardship to till, perhaps, the very ground upon 
which it was grown ; to pull it with the help of her 
children only, and, to her other household cares and 
occupations, to add those of preparing, spinning, and 
it might be, to help even to weave it into good home- 
spun cloth. Seventy or eighty years ago, however, 
this was not uncommon in England ; and it is still 
common, and in some districts even general in Scot- 
land. Burns alludes to the growth of flax in many 
of his poems ; and in the " Cottar's Saturday Night," 
the mother reckons the age of the cheese from the 
time of the flax flowering. 

The household interest which is taken in the flax- 
field presented itself strongly to us in many a wild 
glen, and in many a desolate mountain-side in the 
Highlands of Scotland, in the summer of 1836. You 
came, in the midst of those stony and heathy wilder- 
nesses, upon a few turf-erections, without windows 
and without chimneys ; the wild grasses of the moor 
and the heath itself grew often upon the roof, for all 
had originally been cut from the mountain-side ; and, 
but for the smoke which issued from the door, or the 
children that played about it, you might have doubted 
of its being a hunrian dwelling. Miserable, however, 
as such homes may appear at first sight, they are, as 
it were, the natural growth of the mountain-moor- 
land, and the eye soon finds in them much that is 
picturesque and characteristic. 

About such places as these are frequently, too, 
patches of cultivated ground ; the one of potatoes, 
and perhaps oats or barley, the other of flax. Thus 
grow, at the very door of this humble human tene- 
ment, the food and clothing of the family. How es- 
sential this growth is to them, may be seen from the 
nature of the ground. It is frequently the mostdiffi-. 
cult that can be conceived to bring into cultivation; 
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138 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



one mass, as it seems, of stones, with the scantiest 
intermixture of soil. These stones, many of which 
are of immense size, are wilh infinite toil and pa- 
tience gathered from the earth, and piled into walls 
round the little fields, otherwise the mountain sheep, 
and perhaps the wild roes, would soon lay the whole 
waste. Here the mother, as well as the father, la- 
bours, and indeed the flax seems especially to belong 
to her, for she must spin it before she can convert it 
into family use. 

In the same way is the household provided with 
woollen garments; they are all home-spun and home- 
made, even to many a goodly tartan. The "tarry 
woo" of Scotland, like the " lint flower," is a national 
thing; the afl^ections, as well as the fire-side interests 
of that country are connected with them. 



THE HOUSE-SPARROW. 

In birds, as men, there is a strange variety, 
In both your dandies and your peliis maitres ; 
Your clowns, your grooms, in leathered legs or gaiters ; 
Your hawks, and gulls, and harpies to satiety. 
On sea or land it matters not an ace — 
You find the feathered or unfeathered race 
Of bipeds, showing every form and figure. 
But everywhere the sharp-clawed and the bigger — 
Falcons that shoot, and men that pull the trigger — 
Still pressing on the lesser and forlorn ! 
'T is hard to bear, and yet it must be borne. 
Although we walk about in wrath and scorn. 
To see the hectoring, lording, and commotion 
For ever going on in earth or ocean ! 
The conquerors fierce ; those thievish chaps, the 

lawyers, 
That chirp and gabble, wheedle and bamboozle ; 
The jackdaw-race of pleaders, the pert cawyers 
In their grey wigs, the sober rooks that puzzle 
Land-sharks, and pirates both of sea and land ; 
Your cormorants acting the sedate and grand : 
The singers, and the Paganinis, 
Who filch your fruit, and pocket up your guineas; 
The tomtit, mime ; — the wren, small poet; 
The silly creatures that by scores 
Nurse cuckoo-imps, that out of doors 
Have turned their children, and ihey never know it! 

I walk in cities, 'mong the human herds. 
And then I think of birds : 
I walk in woods among the birds, and then 
I think of men ! 

'T is quite impossible in one or other 
To walk and see not — man and bird are brother. 
The owl can't see in day-light; — 
Oh no I he 's blind and stupid — 
A very fool, — a blockhead plain to see ! 
But just step out and look at him at night. 
When all the world is slumbering, save he — 
My word ! you '11 find him then as brisk as Cupid ! 
With open eyes and beak that has the knack 
To snap up mouse or rabbit by the back ? 



The owl in hollow oak, the man in den, 

Chamber, or office, dusky and obscure, 

Are creatures very heavy and demure; 

But soon their turn comes round, and then. 

Oh, what sharp claws and pitiless beak have they 

To feather, fleece, and worry up their prey ! 

" A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind," 
So sang the noble bard, who, like the swallow, 
Flew through far climes and soared where few can 

follow. 
'T is true ; and therefore still we find 
That gentle spirits love the robin, 
That comes, as Wordsworth says, " when winds are 

sobbing;" 
Pecks at your window ; sits upon your spade, 
And often thanks you in a serenade. 
But what is it that brings about you 
That pert, conceited good-for-nothing Sparrow, 
Which seems to say — " I 'd do as well without you," 
Yet, never for a second, 
Night or day 
Will be away. 

Though hooted, shot at, nor once coaxed or beckoned ? 
In town or country — ^in the densest alley 
Of monstrous London — in the loneliest valley — 
On palace-roof — on cottage-thatch. 
On church or chapel — farm or shop. 
The Sparrow 's still " the bird on the house-top." 
I think 'twas Solomon who said so. 
And in the Bible having read so, 
You find that this ubiquity 
Extends itself far up into antiquity. 
Yes, through all countries and all ages 
While other birds have sung in woods or cages, 
This noisy, impudent and shameless varlet 
Though neither noble, rich, nor clad in scarlet. 
Would have the highest place without the asking. 
Upon your roof the lazy scamp is basking — 
Chirping, scuffling, screaming, fighting. 
Flying and fluttering up and down 
From peep of day to evening brown. 
You may be sleeping, sick, or writing. 
And needing silence — there's the Sparrow, 
Just at your window — and enough to harrow 
The soul of Job in its severest season. 
There, as it seemeth, for no other reason 
But to confijund you ; — he has got. 
Up in the leaden gutter burning hot. 
Every low scape-grace of the Sparrow-clan, 
Loons of all ages, — grandsire. boy and man, 
Old beldame Sparrow, wenches bold. 
All met to wrangle, raffle, rant, and scold. 
Send out your man ! shoot! blow to powder 
The villanous company, that fiercer, louder 
Drive you distracted. There! bang! goes the gun, 
And all the little lads are on the run 
To see the slaughter ; — not a bird is slain — 
There were some feathers flew — a leg was broke, 
But all went off as if it were a joke — 
In come your man — and there they are again ! 

Of all the creatures, that were ever set 
, Upon two legs, there 's nothing to be met, 
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BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



137 



Save some congeners in our own sweet rare, 

Made of such matter, common, cocket, base. 

As are these Sparrows! Would that some magician, 

Philosopher or chemist would but show us 

What 'tis that constitues the composition 

Of certain men in town, who drive, or row us, 

Cads, jarvies, porters of a low degree, 

Haunters, of theatres, taverns, and coach-doors. 

Men all alert in dust and misery; 

Men made to elbow, bustle, cheat or steal, 

Careless of scorn, incapable to feel 

Indignity or shame — vulgar and vain. 

Hunger and cold their only sense of pain. 

Just of this class, amongst all feathered things, 
Is this Jack Sparrow. lie 's no bird that sings, 
He makes no grand pretences ; has no fine 
Airs of high breeding — he but wants to dine. 
His dress is brown, his body stiff and stout. 
Coarse in his nature, made to prog about. 
What are his delicate fancies ? Who e'er sees 
The Sparrow in his sensibilities? 
There are the nightingales, all soul and song. 
Moaning and warbling the green boughs among. 
There are the larks that on etherial wing. 
Sing to high Heaven as heavenly spirits sing ; 
There are the merle, the mavis, birds whose lays 
Inspired the minstrel songs of other days; 
There are the wandering tribes, the cuckoo sweet ; 
Swallows that singing on your chimneys meet. 
Through spring and summer, and anon are flown 
To lands and climes, to sages yet unknown. 
Those are your poets ; — birds of genius — those 
That have their nerves and feel refined woes. 
But these Jack .Sparrows; why they love far more 
Than all this singing nonsense, your barn-door ! 
They love your cherry-tree — your rows of peas. 
Your ripening corn crop, and to live at ease I 
You find no Sparrow in the far-off-woods — 
No — he's not fond of hungry solitudes. 
He better loves the meanest hamlet — where 
Aught 's to be had, the Sparrow will be there, 
Sturdy and bold, and wrangling for his share. 
The tender linnet bathes her sides and wings 
In running brooks and purest forest-springs. 
The Sparrow rolls and scuffles in the dust — 
That is his washing or his proper rust. 

Before your carriage as you drive to town 
To his base meal the Sparrow settles down ; 
He knows the safety-distance to an inch. 
Up to that fwint he will not move or flinch ; — 
You think your horse will crush him — no such thing — 
That coachman's whip might clip his fluttering wing, 
Or take his head off in a twink — but he 
' Knows better still and liveth blithe and free. 

At home he plagues the martins with his noise — 
They build, he takes possession and enjoys; 
Or if he want it not, he takes it still. 
Just because teasing others is his will. 
From hour to hour, from tedious day to day 
He tits to drive the rightful one away. 



At home, abroad, wherever seen or heard. 
Still is the Sparrow just the selfsame bird ; 
Thievish and clamorous, liardy, bold, and base. 
Unlike all others of the fieathered race. 
The bully of his tribe — to all beyond 
The gipsey, beggar, knave, and vagabond I 

It may be thought that I have here dealt hard 
measure to the Sparrow, but the character I have 
given of him will be recognised by those who know 
him, as true. Cowper calls them, a thievish race, 
that scared as often as you please, 

A3 oft return, a pert, vorucioua kind ; 

and that every farmer knows them to be. What 
multitudes do you see dropping down upon, or rising 
from the wheat as it is ripening in the fields. For- 
merly a price was set upon their heads and eggs, by 
country parishes. In many places a penny was given 
for a Sparrow's head, and the same for three or four 
eggs; but this is now done away with, and the farm- 
er must destroy them himself, or pay dearly for it in 
his corn. 

Nothing can exceed the self-complacence of this 
bird. You see him build his nest amongst the rich- 
est tracery of a church roof or window ; within the 
very coronet or escutcheon set up over the gate of 
hall or palace. We saw this summer, the hay and 
litter of his nest hanging out from the richly-cut ini- 
tial-letters of William and Mary over one of the prin- 
cipal windows of Hampton Court. Nay he would 
build in a span-new V. R. set up only yesterday, or 
in the queen's very crown itself though it were 
worth a kingdom, if it were only conveniently placed 
for his purpose. He thinks nothing too good for him. 

But the most provoking part of his character is, 
the pleasure which he takes in teasing, molesting and 
hectoring over birds of the most quiet and inoffen- 
sive nature. He builds about your houses, and 
thinks no other bird has any business to do the same. 
The martin, which loves to build under the eaves of 
our dwellings, after crossing the seas from some far 
country, — has especially to bear his insolence and 
aggressions. There is a pretty story in the " Evenings 
at Home," of two of these interesting birds, who had 
their nest usurped by a Sparrow, getting together 
their fellows, and building him up in the nest, where 
he was left a prisoner amid his plunder. But the 
gentleness of the martin is so great, that such an in- 
tance of poetical justice is more curious, than likely 
to occur a second time. But every summer the 
sparrow lords it over the martin, and frequently 
drives it away by its impertinence. We watched 
his behaviour this year with a good deal of attention. 
Two pairs of inartins came and built their nests be- 
neath the eaves of the stable, near each other. 
Scarcely were the nests half finished, when several 
sparrows were seen watching on the tiles close to 
them, chirping loudly, and conceitedly, and every 
now and then flying at the martins. The nests, 
however, were completed ; but no sooner was this 
this done, than the sparrows took possession of them, 
147 



138 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



and lined them with coarse hay, which is an abomi- 
nation to the martin, which lines its nest with the 
softest feathers. Having witnessed this, we waited 
for about ten days, by which time we supposed the 
sparrows would have laid their full number of eggs; 
and a ladder was set up, in order to inflict just re- 
tribution on them, by taking the whole. But to our 
surprise there were none. The hay was therefore 
carefully removed, that the martins, if they pleased, 
might retake possession ; but the very next day, the 
nests were again filled with hay, and long bents of 
it hung dangling from the entrance-hole. The spar- 
rows had, with wonderful assiduity, and as it were, 
with a feeling of vindictive spite, relined the nests 
with as much hay as they ordinarily carry to their 
own nests in several days. Now it was supposed 
they would really lay in these nests, but no such 
thing,— they never did. Their only object had been 
to dislodge the martins, for it was found that these 
very sparrows had nests of their own in the water- 
spouts of the house, with young ones in them, at the 
very time, and their purpose of ousting the martins 
from their own nests being accomplished, the hay re- 
mained in the nests quietly all summer. 

But this was not all. The poor martins, driven 
from the stable, came now to the house ; and, as if 
for special protection, began to build their nests 
under the roof, nearly over the front door. No sooner 
was this intention discovered by the sparrows, than 
they were all in arms again. They were seen 
watching for hours on the tiles just above, chirping, 
strutting to and fro, flying down upon the martins 
when they came to their nests with materials, and 
loudly calling upon their fellow sparrows to help 
them to be as offensive as possible. The martins, 
however, rendered now more determined, persisted 
in their building, and so far succeeded as to prevent 
the sparrows getting more than a few bents of hay 
into their nests when complete. The martins laid 
their eggs ; but for several limes successively, the 
sparrows entered in their absence, and hoisted out all 
the eggs, which of course fell to the ground and 
were dashed to pieces. Provoked at this mischievous 
propensity of the sparrows, we had them now shot 
at, which had the desired effect. One or two of 
them were killed, and the rest took the hint, and 
permitted the martins to hatch and rear their young 
in peace. 



CHILDHOOD. 

Oh, when I was a little child. 

My life was full of pleasure ; 

I had four-and-twenty living things, 
And many another treasure. 

But chiefest was my sister dear, — 
Oh, how I loved my sister ! 

I never played at all with joy. 
If from my side I missed her. 



I can remember many a time, 

Up in the morning early, — 
Up in the morn by break of day, 

When summer dews hung pearly ; 

Out in the fields what joy it was. 

While the cowslip yet was bending, 

To see the large round moon grow dim, 
And the early lark ascending! 

I can remember too, we rose 

When the winter stars shone brightly ; 
'Twas an easy thing to shake off sleep. 

From spirits strong and sprightly. 

How beautiful were those winter skies. 
All frosty-bright and unclouded, 

And the garden-trees, like cypresses. 

Looked black, in the darkness shrouded ! 

Then the deep, deep snows were beautiful, 

That fell through the long night stilly. 
When behold, at morn, like a silent plain, 

Lay the country wild and hilly ! 
And the fir-trees down by the garden side, 

In their blackness towered more stately ; 
And the lower trees were feathered with snow, 

That were bare and brown so lately. 

And then, when the rare hoar-frost would come, 

Twas all like a dream of wonder. 
Where over us grew the crystal trees. 

And the crystal plants grew under! 
The garden all was enchanted land ; 

All silent and without motion. 
Like a sudden growth of the stalactite, 

Or the corallines of ocean ! 

'Twas all like a fairy forest then. 

Where the diamond trees were growing. 
And within each branch the emerald green 

And the ruby red were glowing. 

I remember many a day we spent 

In the bright hay-harvest meadow ; 

The glimmering heat of the noonday ground, 
And the hazy depth of shadow. 

I can remember, as to-day, 

The corn-field and the reaping. 

The rustling of the harvest-sheaves. 
And the harvest-wain's upheaping : 

I can feel this hour as if I lay 

Adown 'neath the hazel bushes. 

And as if we wove, for pastime wild, 
Our grenadier-caps of rushes. 

And every flower within that field 

To my memory's eye comes flitting. 

The chiccory-flower. like a blue cockade, 
For a fairy-knight befitting. 

The willow-herb by the water side. 
With its fruit-like scent so mellow; 

The gentian blue on the marly hill. 

And the snap-dragon white and yellow. 
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BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



139 



I know where the hawthorn groweth red ; 

Where pink grows the way-side yarrow ; 
I remember the wastes of woad and broom. 

And the shrubs of the red rest-harrow. 

I know where the blue geranium grows, 
And the stork's-bill small and musky ; 

Where the rich osmunda groweth brown, 
And the wormwood white and dusky. 

There was a forest a-nigh our home, — 

A forest so old and hoary, — 
How we loved in its ancient glooms to be. 

And remember its bygone story ! 

We sate in the shade of its mighty trees. 
When the summer noon was glowing. 

And heard in the depths of its undergrowth 
The pebbly waters flowing. 

We quenched our thirst at ihe forest-well ; 

We ate of the forest berry ; 
And the time we spent in the good green-wood, 

Like the times of song, were merry. 

We had no cro.'ses then, no cares ; 

We were children like yourselves then ; 
And we danced and sang, and made us mirth, 

Like the dancing moonlight elves then ! 



BIRDS. 

Oh, the sunny summer time! 

Oh, the leafy summer time ! 
Merry is the bird's life, 

When the year is in its prime ! 
Birds are by the water-falls 

Dashing in the rain-bow spray ; 
Everywhere, everywhere 

Light and lovely there are they ! 
Birds are in the forest old. 

Building in each hoary tree; 
Birds are on the green hills; 

Birds are by the sea ! 

On the moor, and in the fen, 

'Mong the whortle-berries green; 
In the yellow-furze-bush 

There the joyous bird is seen ; 
In the heather on the hill ; 

All among the mountain thyme ; 
By the little brook-sides. 

Where the sparkling waters chime; 
In the crag ; and on the peak. 

Splintered, savage, wild, and bare, 
There the bird with wild wing 

Wheeleth through the air- 

Wheeleth through the breezy air. 
Singing, screaming in his flight, 

Calling to his bird-male. 

In a troubleless delight! 

In the green and leafy wood. 

Where the branching ferns up-ciirl, 
13* 



Soon as is the dawning. 

Wakes the mavis and the merle ; 
Wakes the cuckoo on the bough; 

Wakes the jay with ruddy breast; 
Wakes the mother ring-dove 

Brooding on her nest! 

Oh, the sunny summer time! 

Oh, the leafy summer time ! 
Merry is the bird's life 

When the year is in its prime ! 
Some are strong and some are weak ; 

Some love day and some love night : 
But whate'er a bird is, 

Whate'er loves — it has delight, 
In the joyous song it sings ; 

In the liquid air it cleaves ; 
In the sunshine ; in the shower , 

In the nest it weaves ! 

Do we wake ; or do we sleep ; 

Go our fancies in a crowd 
After many a dull care, — 

Birds are singing loud ! 
Sing then linnet ; sing then wren ; 

Merle and mavis sing your fill ; 
And ihou, rapturous skylark. 

Sing and soar up from the hill ! 
Sing, oh, nightingale, and pour 

Out for us sweet fancies new ! — 
Singing thus for us, birds, 

We will sing of you ! 



THE WOODPECKER. 

The woodpecker green he has not his abiding 
Where the owls and the bats from the daylight are 

hiding; 
Where the bright mountain-streams glide on rock- 
beds away. 
The dark water-ousel may warble and play ; 
In the sedge of the river the reed-sparrow build ; 
And the peewit among the brown clods of the field ; 
The sea-gull may scream on the breast of the tide ; 
On the foam-crested billows the peterel may ride ; 
But the woodpecker asketh nor river nor sea ; 
Give him but the old forest, and old forest-tree. 
And he'll leave to the proud lonely eagle the height 
Of the mist-shrouded precipice splintered and white; 
And he '11 leave to the gorcock the heather and fern. 
And the lake of the valley to woodcock and hern ; 
To the sky-lark he '11 leave the wild fields of the air, 
The sunshine and rainbow ne'er tempted him there. 
The greenwood for him is the place of his rest, 
And the broad-branching tree is the home he loves 

best. 
Let us go to the haunt of the woodpecker green, 
In those depths of the wood there is much to be seen. 

There the wild-rose and woodbine weave fairy- 
land bowers, 
And the moth-mullein grows with its pale yellow 
flowers ; 

149 



140 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



There the hum of the bees through the noonday is 

heard. 
And the chirp, and the cry, and the song of the bird ; 
There up the tree-trunk, like a fly on the wall, 
To pick the grey moss, runs the tree-creeper small ; 
There the wren golden-crested, so lovely to see, 
Hangs its delicate nest from the twigs of the tree; 
And there coos the ring-dove — oh, who would not go. 
That voice of the wood to hear, dreamy and low ! 
Yes, come to the wood — to the woodpecker's tree. 
There is joy 'mong the green leaves for thee and for 

me! 

Hark! heard ye that laughter so loud and so long? — 
Again now ! — it drowneth the wood-linnet's song ! 
'Tis the woodpecker laughing! — the comical elf! 
His soul must be merry to laugh to himself! — 
And now we are nearer — speak low — be not heard ! 
Though he 's merry at heart, he 's a shy, timid bird. 
Hark ! — now he is tapping the old, hollow tree : — 
One step farther on — now look upward — that 's he ! 
Oh, the exquisite bird! — with his downward-hung 

head. 
With his richly-dyed greens — his pale yellow and red ! 
On the gnarled tree-trunk with its sober-toned grey. 
What a beautiful mingling of colours are they ! 
Ah, the words you have spoken have frightened the 

bird — 
For by him the lowest of whispers was heard ; 
Or a footfall as light as the breezes, that pass 
Scarcely bending the flowers, he perceives on the 
grass. 

The squirrel above him might chatter and chide; 
And the purple-winged jay scream on every side ; 
The great winds might blow, and the thunder might 

roll. 
Yet the fearless woodpecker still cling to the bole ; 
But soon as a footstep that's human is heard, 
A quick terror springs to the heart of the bird ! 
For man, the oppressor and tyrant, has made 
The free harmless dwellers of nature afraid ! 

'Neath the fork of the branch, in the tree's hollow 
bole, 
Has the timid woodpecker crept into his hole ; 
For there is his home in deep privacy hid, 
Like a chamber scooped into a far pyramid ; 
And there is his mate, as secure as can be, 
And his little young woodpeckers deep in the tree. 
And not till he thinks there is no one about. 
Will he come to his portal and slyly peep out ; 
And then, when we 're up at the end of the lane. 
We shall hear the old woodpecker laughing again. 



THE HAREBELL. 

(CAMPANULA ROTUNDIFOLIA.) 

It springeth on the heath, 
The forest-tree beneath, 
Like to some elfin dweller of the wild ; 



Light as a breeze astir. 
Stemmed with the gossamer; 
Soft as the blue eyes of a poet's child. 

The very flower to take , 

Into the heart, and make 
The cherished memory of all pleasant places; 

Name but the light harebell. 

And straight is pictured well 
Where'er of fallen state he lonely traces. 

We vision wild sea-rocks, 

Where hang its clustering locks, 
Waving at dizzy height o'er ocean's brink; 

The hermit's scooped cell ; 

The forest's sylvan well, 
Where the poor wounded hart came down to drink. 

We vision moors far-spread, 

Where blooms the heather red. 
And hunters with their dogs lie down at noon ; 

Lone shepherd-boys, who keep 

On mountain-sides their sheep. 
Cheating the time with flowers and fancies boon. 

Old slopes of pasture-ground ; 

Old fosse, and moat, and mound. 
Where the mailed warrior and crusader came : 

Old walls of crumbling stone. 

Where trails the snap-dragon ; 
Rise at the speaking of the Harebell's name. 

We see the sere turf brown, 

And the dry yarrow's crown 
Scarce raising from the stem its thick-set flowers ; 

The pale hawkvveed we see, 

The blue-flowered chiccory. 
And the strong ivy-growth o'er crumbling lowers. 

Light Harebell, there thou art. 

Making a lovely part 
Of the old splendour of the days gone by, 

Waving, if but a breeze 

Pant through the chestnut trees. 
That on the hill-top grow broad-branched and high. 

Oh, when I look on thee. 

In thy fair symmetry. 
And look on other flowers as fair beside, 

My sense is gratitude. 

That God has been thus good. 
To scatter flowers, like common blessings, wide. 



THE SCREECH OWL. 

Pray thee. Owl, what art thou doing, 
With that dolefulest tu-whoo-ing? 
Dark the night is, dark and dreary. 
Never a little star shines cheery ; 
Wild north winds come up the hollow, 
And the pelting rain doth follow ; 
And the trees the tempest braving. 
To and fro are wildly waving! 
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BIRDS AND FLOWERS, AND OTHER COUNTRY THINGS. 



141 



Every living thing is creeping 
To its den, and silence lieeping, 
Saving thou, the night hallooing 
With thy dismalest tu-whoo-ing! 

Nought I see, so black the night i^ 
Black the storm, too, in its might is ; 
But I know there lies the forest, 
Peril ever there the sorest, 
Where the wild deer-stealers wander; 
And the ruin lieth yonder. 
Splintered tower and crumbling column, 
All among the yew-trees solemn. 
Where the toad and lizard clamber 
Into many an ancient chamber, 
And below, the black rocks under, 
Like the muttering coming thunder 
Lowly muttering, rolling ever, 
Passes on the fordless river: — 
Yet I see the black night only 
Covering all, so deep and lonely! 

Pr'ythee, Owl, what is 't thou 'rt saying 
So terrific and dismaying? 
Dost thou speak of loss and ruin, 
In that ominous tu-whoo-ing? 
While the tempest yet was stiller. 
Homeward rode the kindly miller, 
With his drenched meal-sacks o'er him, 
And his little son before him ; 
Dripping wet, yet loud in laughter, 
Rode the jolly hunters after; 
And sore wet, and blown and wildern, 
Went a huddling group of children ; 
But each, through ihe tempest's pother. 
Got home safely to its mother; 
And ere afternoon was far on. 
Up the mountain spurred the Baron. 
IIow can evil then betide 'em ! 
In their houses warm they hide 'em. 
In his chimney-corner smoking, 
Sits the miller, spite thy croaking ; 
And the children, snug and cozy, 
In their beds sleep warm and rosy; 
And the Baron with his lady. 
Plays at chess sedate and steady. 

Hoot away, then, an' it cheer thee, 
Only I and darkness hear thee. 
Trusting Heaven, we '11 fear no ruin. 
Spite thy ominous tu-whoo-ing! 



FLOWER. PAINTINGS. 

I LOVE those pictures that we see 

At times in some old gallery. 

Hung amid armed men of old. 

And antique ladies, quaint and cold ; 

'Mong furious battle-pieces, dire 

With agony, and blood, and fire ; — 

Flower-pictures, painted long ago, 

Though worn, and old, and dimmed of glow, 

I love them, although art may deem 

Such pictures of but light esteem. 



There are the red rose and the white ; 
And stems of lilies, strong and bright ; 
The leaf arid tendril of the vine ; 
The iris and the columbine ; 
The streaky tulip, gold and jet ; 
The amaranth and violet; 
There is the bright jonquil ; the trail 
Of bind-vveed, chalice-like and pale; 
The crumpled poppy, brave and bold ; 
The pea ; the pink ; the marigold. 

There are they grouped, in form and hue, 
Flower, bud, and leaf to nature true ! 
Yes, although slighted and forlorn. 
And oft the mark of modern scorn, 
I love such pictures, and mine eye 
With cold regard ne'er passed them by. 
I love them most, that they present 
Ever some goodly sentiment; 
The virgin-mother, young and mild ; 
The cradle of the holy child ; 
Or, 'mid a visioned glory faint. 
The meek brow of some martyred saint ; 
And with their painters I can find 
A kindred sympathy of mind. 

Flowers are around me bright of hue. 
The quaint, old favourites and the new, 
In form and colour infinite, 
Each one a creature of delight. 
But with this fair array is brought 
Full many a deep and holy thought, 
And for me garden-beds and bowers, 
Like the old pictures of the flowers. 
Within their bloomy depths enshrine 
Ever some sentiment divine I 



L'ENVOI. 

Go, little book, and to the young and kind. 
Speak thou of pleasant hours and lovely things ; 
Of fields and woods; of sunshine; dew and wind; 
Of mountains ; valleys, and of river-springs ; 
Speak thou of every little bird that sings ; 
Of every bright, sweet-scented flower that blows ; 
But chiefest speak of Him whose mercy flings 
Beauty and love abroad, and who bestows 
Light to the sun alike, with odour to the rose. 

My little book that hast been unto me. 
Even as a flower reared in a pleasant place. 
This is the task that 1 impose on thee ; — 
Go forth ; with serious style or playful grace, 
Winning young, gentle hearts ; and bid them trace 
With thee, Ihe Spirit of Love through earth and 

air ; 
On beast and bird, and on our mortal race. 
So, do thy gracious work ; and onward fare. 
Leaving, like angel-guest, a blessing everywhere I 
151 



142 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Sfeetclirjs of S-atutal ?i?i!^totfi* 



ANNA MARY AND ALFRED WILLIAM 

HOWITT, 

THESE SKETCHES, 

ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR THEIR AMUSEMENT, 
ARE AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 



These simple and unpretending Sketches require 
no introduction; and yet, when title-page, contents, 
and dedication have been made out, an introduction 
so naturally follows, that it might be supposed a book 
could not be put together without one, — though the 
writer, as in my case, has little to say either of her- 
self or her volume. 

All, therefore, that I shall now remark is, that 
these Sketches were written for my own Children ; 
and many of them at their suggestion ; and that in 
seeing the pleasure they have derived from them, I 
have hoped their young contemporaries may find 
them equally agreeable. A few of them have al- 
ready appeared in some of the Juvenile Annuals, and 
may therefore be familiar to many of my young 
readers; but I trust they will pardon a reprint of 
what is already known, in the prospect of finding 
more that is new. 

NoUingkam, May 1834. 



SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



THE COOT. 

Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot, 

I pray thee tell to me. 
The perils of that stormy time 

That bore thee to the sea! 

I saw thee on the river fair. 

Within thy sedgy screen ; 
Around thee grew the bulrush tall, 

And reeds so strong and green. 

The kingfisher came back again 

To view thy fairy place ; 
The stately swan sailed statelier by. 

As if thy home to grace. 

But soon the mountain-flood came down. 
And bowed the bulrush strong; 

And far above those tall green reeds. 
The waters poured along. 

" And where is she, the Water-Coot," 
I cried, " that creature good ?" 

But then I saw thee in thine ark, 
Regardless of the flood. 



Amid the foaming waves thou sat'st, 

And steer'dst thy little boat; 
Thy nest of rush and water-reed 

So bravely set afloat. 
And on it went, and safely on 

That wild and stormy tide ; 
And there thou sat'st, a mother-bird, 

Thy young ones at thy side. 

Oh Coot! oh bold, adventurous Coot, 

I pray thee tell to me. 
The perils of that stormy voyage 

That bore thee to the sea ! 

Iladst thou no fear, as night came down 

Upon thy watery way. 
Of enemies, and dangers dire 

That round about thee lay ? 

Didst thou not see the falcon grim 

Swoop down as thou passed by ? 
And 'mong the waving water flags 

The lurking oiler he ? 
The eagle's scream came wildly near. 

Yet, caused it no alarm? 
Nor man, who seeing thee, weak thing, 

Did strive to do thee harm ? 

And down the foaming waterfall, 

As thou wast borne along, 
Hadst thou no dread ? Oh daring bird, 

Thou hadst a spirit strong! 

Yes, thou hadst fear. But He who sees 
The sparrows when they fall ; 

He saw thee, bird, and gave thee strengtli 
To brave thy perils all. 

He kept thy little ark afloat; 

He watched o'er thine and thee ; 
And safely through the foaming flood 

Hath brought thee to the sea." 



THE CAMEL. 

Camel, thou art good and mild, 
Might'st be guided by a child ; 
Thou wast made for usefulness, 
Man to comfort and to bless. 
Thou dost clothe him ; thou dost feed : 
Thou dost lend to him thy speed. 
And through wilds of trackless sand, 
In the hot Arabian land. 
Where no rock its shadow throw's ; 
Where no pleasant water flows; 
Where the hot air is not stirred. 
By the wing of singing bird, 

152 



SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



143 



There thou go'st untired and meek, 
Day by day, and week by week, 
Bearing freight of precious things, 
Silks for merchants, gold for kings; 
Pearls of Ormuz, riches rare. 
Damascene and Indian ware ; 
Bale on bale, and heap on heap, 
Freighted like a costly ship! 

When the red Simoom comes near, 
Camel, dost thou know no fear? 
When the desert sands uprise 
Flaming crimson to the skies, 
And like pillared giants strong. 
Stalk the dreary waste along, 
Bringing death unto his prey, 
Does not thy good heart give way ? 
Camel, no! thou do'st for man 
All thy generous nature can ! 
Thou do'st lend to him thy speed 
In that awful time of need ; 
And when the Simoom goes by, 
Teachest him to close his eye, 
And bow down before the blast 
Till the purple death has passed ! 

And when week by week is gone. 
And the traveller journeys on 
Feebly ; when his strength is fled. 
And his hope and heart seem dead. 
Camel, thou dost turn thine eye 
On him kindly, soothingly, 
As if thou would'st cheering, say, 
"Journey on for this one day ! 
" Do not let thy heart despond ; 
" There is water yet beyond ! 
" I can scent it in the air ; — 
" Do not let thy heart despair !" 
And thou guid'st the traveller there. 

Camel, thou art good and mild, 
Might'st be guided by a child ; 
Thou wast made for usefulness, 
Man to comfort and to bless ; 
And these desert wastes must be 
Untracked regions but for thee ! 



CEDAR TREES. 

.The power that formed the violet, 

The all-creating One; 
He made the stately Cedar trees 
That crowned Mount Lebanon. 

And all v^'ithin the garden 
That angels came to see, — 

He set in groves and on the hills 
The goodly Cedar tree. 

There played the gladsome creatures. 

Beneath its shadow dim ; 
And from its spreading, leafy boughs 

Went up the wild bird's hymn. 
U 



And Eve in her young innocence 

Delayed her footsteps there ; 
And Adam's heart grew warm with praise 

To see a tree so fair. 

And though the world was darkened 

With the shade of human ill, 
And man was cast from Paradise, 

Yet wast thou goodly still. 

And when an ancient poet 
Some lofty theme would sing. 

He made the Cedar symbol forth 
Each great and gracious thing. 

And royal was the Cedar 

Above all other ttees! 
They chose of old its scented wood 

For kingly palaces. 

And in the halls of princes. 

And on the Phcsnix-pyre, 
'T was only noble cedar-wood 

Could feed the odorous fire. 

In the temple of Jerusalem, 
That glorious temple old, ' 

They only found the cedar-wood 
To match with carved gold. 

Thou great and noble Solomon, 
What king was e'er like thee ? 

Thou 'mong the princes of the earth 
Wast like a Cedar tree ! 

But the glory of the Cedar tree 

Is as an old renown. 
And few and dwindled grow they now 

Upon Mount Lebanon. 

But dear they are to poet's heart ; 

And dear to painter's eye ; 
And the beauty of the Cedar tree 

On earth will never die ! 



THE MONKEY. 

Monkey, little merry fellow, 
Thou art nature's punchinello ! 
Full of fun as Puck could be ; 
Harlequin might learn of thee! 

Look now at his odd grimaces! 
Saw you e'er such comic faces ? 
Now like learned judge sedate ; 
Now with nonsense in his pate! 

Nature, in a sunny wood, 
Must have been in merry mood. 
And with laughter fit to burst. 
Monkey, when she made thee first. 

How you leaped and frisked about. 
When your life you first fotjnd out ; 
How you threw, in roguish mirth, 
Cocoa-nuts on mother earth ; 

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144 



HO WITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



How you sate and made a din 
Louder than had ever been, 
Till the Parrots, all a-riot, 
Chattered too to keep you quiet; 

Little, merry Monkey, tell 
Was there kept no chronicle ? 
And have you no legends old, 
Wherein this, and more is told ? 

How the world's first children ran 
Laughing from the monkey-man. 
Little Abel and his brother, 
Laughing, shouting to their mother? 

And could you keep down your mirth, 
When the floods were on the earth ; 
When from all your drowning kin, 
Good old Noah took you in ? 

In the very ark, no doubt. 
You went frolicking about ; 
Never keeping in your mind. 
Drowned monkeys left behind'. 

No, we cannot hear of this ; 
Gone are all the witnesses ; 
But I 'm very sure that you 
Made both mirth and mischief too ! 

Have ye no traditions, — none 
Of the court of Solomon ? 
, No memorial how ye went 
With prince Hiram'.s armament ? 

Were ye given, or were ye sold 
With the peacocks and the gold ; 
Is it all forgotten quite, 
'Cause ye neither read nor write ? 

Look now at him ! Slyly peep. 
He pretends he is asleep; 
Fast asleep upon his bed. 
With his arm beneath his head. 

Now that posture is not right. 
And he is not settled quite — 
There ! that 's better than before. 
And the knave pretends to snore ! 

Ha ! he is not half asleep ! 
See, he slyly takes a peep! 
Monkey, though your eyes were shut. 
You could see this little nut. 

You shall have it, pigmy brother ! 
What, another? and another? 
Nay, your cheeks are like a sack,— 
Sit down, and begin to crack. 

There, the little ancient man 
Cracks as fast as crack he can! 
Now, good bye, you merry fellow. 
Nature's primest punchinello ! 



THE FOSSIL ELEPHANT. 

The earth is old I Six thousand years 

Are gone since I had birth; 
In the forests of the olden time, 

And the solitudes of earth. 

We were a race of mighty things ; 

The world was all our own. 
I dwelt with the Mammoth large and strong, 

And the giant Mastodon. 

No ship went over the waters then. 

No ship with oar or sail ; 
But the wastes of the sea were habited 

By the Dragon and the Whale. 

And the Hydra down in the ocean caves 

Abode, a creature grim; 
And the scaled Serpents huge and strong 

Coiled up in the waters dim. 

The wastes of the world were all our own; 

A proud, imperial lot! 
Man had not then dominion given. 

Or else we knew it not. 

There was no city on the plain ; 

No fortress on the hill ; 
No mighty men of strength, who came. 

With armies up, to kill. 

There was no iron then — no brass — 

No silver and no gold; 
The wealth of the world was in its woods. 

And its granite mountains old. 

And we were the kings of all the world ; 

We knew its breadth and length; 
We dwelt in the glory of solitude. 

And the majesty of strength. 

But suddenly came an awful change! 

Wherefore, ask not of me ; 
That it was, my desolate being shows, — 

Let that suffice for thee. 

The Mammoth huge and the Mastodon 
Were buried beneath the earth; 

And the Hydra and the Serpents strong. 
In the caves where they had birth! 

There is now no place of silence deep. 

Whether on land or sea; 
And the Dragons lie in the mountain-rock. 

As if for eternity ! 

And far in the realms of thawless ice. 

Beyond each island shore. 
My brethren lie in the darkness stern. 

To awake to life no more! 

And not till the last conflicting crash 
When the world consumes in fire. 

Will their frozen sepulchres be loosed, 
And their dreadful doom expire ! 
154 



SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



145 



■^y 



THE LOCUST. 

The Locust is fierce, and strong, and grira, 
And an armed man is afraid of him : 
He comes like a winged shape of dread, 
With his shielded back and his armed head, 
And his double wings for hasty flight, 
And a keen, unwearying appetite. 

He comes with famine and fear along, 

An army a million million strong; 

The Golh and the Vandal, and dwarfish Hun, 

With their swarming people wild and dun. 

Brought not the dread that the Locust brings, 

When is heard the rush of their myriad wings. 

From the deserts of burning sand they speed. 
Where the Lions roam and the Serpents breed, 
Far over the sea, away, away ! 
And they darken the sun at noon of day. 
Like Eden the land before they find, 
i But they leave it a desolate waste behind. 

The peasant grows pale when he sees them come, 
1 And standeth before them weak and dumb; 
' For they come like a raging fire in power. 

And eat up a harvest in half an hour; 

And the trees are bare, and the land is brown, 
I As if trampled and trod by an army down. 

There is terror in every monarch's eye. 
When he hears that his terrible foe is nigh ; 
For he knows that the might of an armed host 
Cannot drive the spoiler from out his coast. 
And that terror and famine his land await; 
I That from north to south 't will be desolate. 

iThus the ravening Locust is strong and grim ; 
And what were an armed man to him? 
Fire turneth him not, nor sea prevents, 
He is stronger by far than the elements ! 
The broad green earth is his prostrate prey. 
And he darkens the sun at the noon of day ! 



THE BROOM-FLOWER. 

THE Broom, the yellow Broom, 
The ancient poet sung it, 

And dear it is on summer days 
To lie at rest among it. 

1 know the realms where people say 
The flowers have not their fellow ; 

I know where they shine out like suns. 
The crimson and the yellow. 

I know where ladies live enchained 

In luxury's silken letters. 
And flowers as bright as glittering gems 

Are used for written letters. 

But ne'er was flower so fair as this, 

In modern days or olden ; 
It groweth on ils nodding slem 

Like to a garland golden. 



And all about my mother's door 
Shine out its glittering bushes, 

And down the glen, where clear as light 
The mountain-water gushes. 

Take all the rest, — but give me this, 
And the bird that nestles in it; 

I love it, for it loves the broom. 
The green and yellow linnet. 

Well, call the rose the queen of flowers, 
And boast of that of Sharon, 

Of lilies like to marble cups. 
And the golden rod of Aaron. 

I care not how these flowers may be 
Beloved of man and woman ; 

The Broom it is the flower for me 
That groweth on the common. 

Oh the Broom, the yellow Broom, 

The ancient poet sung it. 
And dear it is on summer days 

To lie at rest among it! 



THE EAGLE. 

No, not in the meadow, and not on the shore ; 
And not on the wide heath with furze covered o'er, 
Where the cry of the Plover, the hum of the bee, 
Give a feeling of joyful security: 
And not in the woods, where the Nightingale's song. 
From the chestnut and orange pours all the day long ; 
And not where the Martin has built in the eaves, 
And the Red-breast e'er covered the children with 

leaves. 
Shall ye find the proud Eagle ! O no, come away ; 
I will show you his dwelling, and point out his prey! 
Away ! let us go where the mountains are high. 
With tall splintered peak towering into the sky; 
Where old ruined castles are dreary and lone, 
And seem as if built for a world that is gone; 
There, up on the topmost tower, black as the night, 
Sits the old monarch Eagle in full blaze of light: 
He is king of these mountains : save him and his 

mate, 
No Eagle dwells here ; he is lonely and great ! 
Look, look how he sits! with his keen glancing eye. 
And his proud head thrown back, looking into the 

sky ; 
And hark to the rush of his out-spreading wings. 
Like the coming of tempest, as upward he springs, 
And now how the echoing mountains are stirred. 
For that was the cry of the Eagle you heard ! 
Now, see how he soars! like a speck in the height 
Of the blue vaulted sky, and now lost in the light ! 
And now downward he wheels as a shaft from a 

bow 
By a strong archer sent, to the valleys below ! 
And that is the bleat of a lamb of the flock; — 
One moment, and he re-ascends to the rock. — 
Yes, see how the conqueror is winging his way 
And his terrible talons are holding their prey ! 
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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Great bird of the wilderness ! lonely and proud, 
With a spirit unbroken, a neck never bowed. 
With an eye of defiance, august and severe, 
Who scorn'st an inferior, and hatest a peer, 
What is it that giveth thee beauty and worth? 
Thou wast made for the desolate places of earth ; 
To mate with the tempest; to match with the sea; 
And God showed his power in the Lion and thee ! 



THE NETTLE. KING. 

There was a Nettle both great and strong ; 

And the threads of his poison-flowers were long ; 

He rose up in strength and height also, 

And he said, " I'll be king of the plants below !" 

It was a wood both drear and dank, 

There grew the Nettle so broad and rank ; 

And an Owl sate up in an old ash tree 

That was wasting away so silently ; 

And a Raven was perched above his head. 

And they both of them heard what the Nettle-king 

said ; 
And there was a toad that sate below. 
Chewing his venom sedate and slow. 
And he heard the words of the Nettle also. 

The Nettle he throve, and the Nettle he grew. 

And the strength of the earth around him he drew : 

There was a pale Stellaria meek. 

But as he grew strong, so she grew weak ; 

There was a Campion, crimson-eyed. 

But as he grew up, the Campion died : 

And the blue Veronica, shut from light. 

Faded away in a sickly white; 

For upon his leaves a dew there hung. 

That fell like a blight from a serpent's tongue. 

And there was not a flower about the spot, 

Herb-Robert, Harebell, nor Forget-me-not 

Yet up grew the Nettle like water-sedge. 

Higher and higher above the hedge ; 

The stuff of his leaves was strong and stout, 

And the points of his stinging-flowers stood out; 

And the Child that went in the wood to play. 

From the great King-nettle would shrink away! 

" Now," says the King-nettle, " there 's none like me ; 

" I am as great as a plant can be ! 

" I have crushed each weak and tender root, 

"With the mighty power of my kingly foot; 

" I have spread out my arms so strong and wide, 

" And opened my way on every side ; 

" I have drawn from the earth its virtues fine, 

" To strengthen for me each poison-spine ; 

" Both morn and night my leaves I 've spread, 

" And upon the falling dews have fed, 

" Till I am as great as a ft)rest-tree ; 

" The great wide world is the place for me !" 

Said the Nettle-king in his bravery. 

Just then up came a Woodman stout. 

In the thick of the wood he was peering about. 



The Nettle looked up, the Nettle looked down, 

And graciously smiled on the simple clown : 

"Thou knowest me well, Sir Clown," said he, 

" And 'tis meet that thou reverence one like me! 

Nothing at all the man replied. 

But he lifted a scythe that was at his side, 

And he cut the Nettle up by the root. 

And trampled it under his heavy foot; 

And he saw where the Toad in its shadow lay. 

But he said not a word, and went his way. 



THE BIRD OF PARADISE. 

O LOVELY Bird of Paradise, 

I '11 go where thou dost go ! 
Rise higher yet. and higher yet. 

For a stormy wind doth blow. 

Now up above the tempest 

We are sailing in the calm, 
Amid the golden sunshine, 

And where the air is balm. 

See, far below us rolling. 
The storm-cloud black and wide ; 

The fury of its raging 
Is as an angry tide ! 

O gentle Bird of Paradise, 

Thy happy lot I'll share; 
And go where'er thou goest 

On, through the sunny air! 

Whate'er the food thou eatest. 

Bird, I will eat it too, 
And ere it reach the stormy earth, 

Will drink with thee the dew! 

My father and my mother, 
I '11 leave them for thy sake ; 

And where thy nest is builded, 
My pleasant home will make ! 

Is it woven of the sunshine, 
And the fragrance of the spice ; 

And cradled round with happiness ? 
Sweet Bird of Paradise ! 

O take tne, take me to it. 

Wherever it may be, 
For far into the sunshine 

I '11 fly away with thee ! 

Thus sung an Eastern poet, 

A many years ago; 
Now, of the Bird of Paradise 

A truer tale we know. 

We know the nest it buildeth 

Within the forest green ; 
And many and many a traveller 

Its very eggs hath seen. 

Yet, lovely Bird of Paradise, 
They take no charm from thee ; 

Thou art a creature of the earth. 
And not a mystery! 

156 



SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



147 



THE WATER-RAT. 

Come into the meadows, this bright summer day ; 

The people are merrily making the hay: 

There 's a blithe sound of pastoral life everywhere; 

And the gay Lark is carolling up in the air. 

And I know in the wood where the Columbine grows, 

And the climbing Clematis and Pink Apple-rose; 

And 1 know where the Buglos grows blue as the sky. 

And the deep crimson Vetch like a wild Vine runs 

high. 
And I '11 show you a sight you love better than these, 
A little field-stream overshadowed with trees, 
Where the water is clear as a free mountain-rill, 
And now it runs rippling, and now it is still ; 
Where the crowned Butomus is gracefully growing. 
Where the long purple spikes of the Loose-strife are 

blowing. 
And the rich, plumy crests of the Meadow-sweet seem 
Like foam which the current has left on the stream ; 
There I '11 show you the brown Water-Rat at his 

play — 
You will see nothing blither this blithe summer day; 
A glad, innocent creature, for whom were ordained 
The quiet of brooks, and the plants they contained, 
But, hush! step as lightly as leaves in their fall, 
Man has wronged him, and he is in fear of us all. 
See ! there he is sitting, the tree-roots among. 
And the Reed-sparrow by him is singing his song. 
See how gravely he sits ; how demure and how still, 
Like an anchorite old at his mossy door-sill! 
Ah no, now his mood of sedateness is gone, 
And his harlequin motions he '11 show us anon. 
Look ! look now ! how quickly the water he cleaves, 
And again he is up 'mong fhose arrow-head leaves ; 
See his little blackhead, and his eyes sparkling shine. 
He has made up his mind on these dainties to dine, 
For he has not a want V4'hich he cannot supply 
In a water like this, with these water-plants nigh ; 
And he asketh no bounty from man ; he can find 
A plentiful table spread out to his mind ; 
For this little field-stream hath all good that he needs. 
In the budding tree-roots and the clustering reeds. 
And the snowy-flowered arrow-head thick growing 

here : 
Ah, pity it is man has taught him to fear! 
But look at him now, how he siltelh afloat 
On the broad Water-lily leaf, as in a boat. 
See the antics he plays ! how he dives in the stream, 
To and fro — now he chases that dancing sunbeam ; 
Now he stands for a moment, as if half-perplexed, 
In his frolicsome heart, to know what to do next. 
Ha ! see now, that Dragon-fly sets him astir, 
And he launches away like a brave mariner ; 
See there, up the stream how he merrily rows. 
And the tall fragrant Calamus bows as he goes ! 
And now he is lost at the foot of the tree ; 
'Tis his home, and a snug little home it must be'! 

And 'tis thus that the Water-Rat liveth all day. 
In these small pleasures wearing the summer away ; 
14 



And when cold winter comes, and the water-plants 

die. 
And his little brooks yield him no longer supply, 
Down into his burrow he cozily creeps. 
And quietly through the long winter-time sleeps. 
Thus in summer his table by Nature is spread. 
And old mother Earth makes in winter his bed. 



THE SPARROW'S NEST. 

Nay, only look what I have found ! 
A Sparrow's nest upon the ground ; 
A Sparrow's nest, as you may see, 
Blown out of yonder old elm tree. 

And what a medley thing it is ! 
I never saw a nest like this, — 
So neatly wove with decent care. 
Of silvery moss and shining hair; 

But put together, odds and ends. 
Picked up from enemies and friends : 
See, bits of thread, and bits of rag, 
Just like a little rubbish-bag ! 

Here is a scrap of red and brown, 
Like the old washer-woman's gown ; 
And here is muslin, pink and green, 
And bits of calico between ; 

O never thinks the lady fair. 
As she goes by with mincing air. 
How the pert Sparrow over-head, 
Has robbed her gown to make its bed ! 

See, hair of dog and fur of cat. 

And rovings of a worsted mat. 

And shreds of silks, and many a feather, 

Compacted cunningly together. 

Well, here has hoarding been and hiving, 
And not a little good contriving. 
Before a home of peace and ease 
Was fashioned out of things like these ! 

Think, had these odds and ends been brought 
To some w ise man renowned for thought. 
Some man, of men a very gem. 
Pray what could he have done with them? 

If we had said, " Here, sir, we bring 
You many a worthless little thing. 
Just bits and scraps, so very small. 
That they have scarcely size at all ; 

" And out of these, you must contrive 

A dwelling large enough for five ; 

Neat, warm, and snug ; with comfort stored ; 

Where five small things may lodge and board.' 

How would the man of learning vast 
Have been astonished and aghast ; 
And vowed that such a thing had been 
Ne'er heard of, thought of, much less seen. 
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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ah ! man of learning, you are wrong ; 
Instinct is, more than wisdom, strong ; 
And He who made the Sparrow, taught 
This skill beyond your reach of thought. 

And here, in this uncostly nest. 
These little creatures have been blest ; 
Nor have kings known in palaces. 
Half their contentedness in this — 
Poor simple dwelling as it is! 



THE KINGFISHER. 

For the handsome Kingfisher, go not to the tree, 
No bird of the field or the forest is he ; 
In the dry riven rock he did never abide. 
And not on the brown heath all barren and wide. 

He lives where the fresh, sparkling waters are flow- 
ing, 

Where the tall, heavy Typha and Loosestrife are 
growing ; 

By the bright little streams that ail joyfully run 

Awhile in the shadow, and then in the sun. 

He lives in a hole that is quite to his mind, 
With the green, mossy Hazel roots firmly entwined ; 
Where the dark Alder-bough waves gracefully o'er. 
And the Sword-flag and Arrow-head grow at his door. 

There busily, busily, all the day long. 
He seeks for small fishes the shallows among; 
For he builds his nest of the pearly fish-bone. 
Deep, deep in the bank far retired, and alone. 

Then the brown Water-Rat from his burrow looks 

out. 
To see what his neighbour Kingfisher 's about ; 
And the green Dragon-fly, flitting slowly away, 
Just pauses one moment to bid him good-day. 

O happy Kingfisher! what care should he know, 
By the clear, pleasant streams, as he skims to and fro. 
Now lost in the shadow, now bright in the sheen 
Of the hot summer sun, glancing scarlet and green ! 



THE MIGRATION OF THE GREY 
SQUIRRELS. 

When in my youth I travelled 
Throughout each north countrie, 

Many a strange thing did I hear, 
And many a strange thing see. 

I sate with small men in their huts, 

Built of the drifted snow ; 
No fire had we but the seal-oil lamp. 

Nor other light did knov^-. 

For far and w-ide the plains were lost 
For months in the winter dark; 

And we heard the growl of the hungry Bear, 
And the blue Fox's bark. 



But when the sun rose redly up 

To shine lor half a year. 
Round and round through the skies to sail, 

Nor once lo disappear. 

Then on I went, with curious eyes. 

And saw where, like to man, 
The Beaver built his palaces ; 

And where the Ermine ran. 

And came where sailed the lonely Swans 

Wild on their native flood ; 
And the shy Elk grazed up the mossy hills. 

And the Wolf was in the wood. 

And the frosty plains like diamonds shone, 

And the iced rocks also, 
Like emeralds and like beryls clear, 

Till the soft south wind did blow. 

And then upsprang the grass and flowers. 

Sudden, and sweet, and bright ; 
And the wild birds filled the solitude 

With a fervour of delight. 

But nothing was there that pleased me more 

Than when, in autumn brown, 
I came in the depths of the pathless woods, 

To the Grey Squirrel's town. 

There were hundreds that in the hollow boles 
Of the old, old trees did dwell. 

And laid up their store hard by their door 
Of the sweet mast as it fell. 

But soon the hungry wild Swine came. 
And with thievish snout dug up 

Their buried treasure, and left them not 
So much as an acorn-cup ! 

Then did they chatter in angry mood, 

And one and all decree, 
Into the forest of rich stone-pine 

Over hill and dale to flee. 

Over hill and dale, over hill and dale, 
For many a league they went ; 

Like a troop of undaunted travellers 
Governed by one consent. 

But the Hawk and Eagle, and peering Owl, 

Did dreadfully pursue ; 
And the farther the Grey Squirrels w-ent. 

The more their perils grew. 
When lo ! to cut off their pilgrimage, 

A broad stream lay in view. 

But then did each wondrous creature show 

His cunning and bravery ; 
With a piece of the Pine-bark in his mouth, 

Unto the stream came he, 

And boldly his little bark he launched. 

Without the least delay; 
His bushy tail was his upright sail. 

And he merrily steered away. 
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SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



149 



Never was there a lovelier sight 
Than that Grey Squirrels' fleet ; 

And with anxious eyes I watched to see 
What fortune it would meet. 

Soon had they reached the rough mid-stream. 

And ever and anon, 
I grieved to behold some small bark wrecked, 

And its little steersman gone. 

But the main fleet stoutly held across ; 

I saw them leap to shore; 
They entered the woods with a cry of joy. 

For their perilous march was o'er. 

W. H. 



THE BEAVER. 

Up in the north if thou sail with me; 
A wonderful creature I 'II show to thee : 
As gentle and mild as a Lamb at play, 
Skipping about in the month of May ; 
Yet wise as any old learned sage 
Who sits turning over a musty page .' 

Come down to this lonely river's bank, 
See, driven-in stake and riven plank ; 
'Tis a mighty work before thee stands 
That would do no shame to human hands. 
A well-built dam to stem the tide 
Of this northern river so strong and wide ; 
Look ! the woven bough of many a tree, 
And a wall of fairest masonry ; 
The waters cannot o'erpass this bound, 
For a hundred keen eyes watch it round ; 
And the skill that raised can keep it good 
Against the peril of storm and flood. 

And yonder, the peaceable creatures dwell 

Secure in their watery citadel ! 

They know no sorrow, have done no sin ; 

Happy they live 'mong kith and kin — 

As happy as living things can be, 

Each in the midst of his family ! 

Ay, there they live, and the hunter wild 

Seeing their social natures mild. 

Seeing how they were kind and good, 

Hath felt his stubborn soul subdued; 

And the very sight of their young at play 

Hath put his hunter's heart away; 

And a mood of pity hath o'er him crept, 

As he thought of his own dear babes and wept.' 

I know ye are but the Beavers small. 
Living at peace in your own mud-wall ; 
I know that ye have no books to teach 
The lore that lies within your reach. 
But what ? Five thousand years ago 
Ye knew as much as now ye know ; 
And on the banks of streams that sprung 
Forth when the earth itself was young, 



• A fact. 



Your wondrous works were formed as true; 
For the All-Wise instructed you ! 
But man ! how hath he pondered on, 
Through the long term of ages gone ; 
And many a cunning book hath writ, 
Of learning deep, and subtle wit ; 
Hath compassed sea, hath compassed land, 
Hath built up towers and temples grand, 
Hath travelled far for hidden lore. 
And known what was not known of yore, 
Yet after all, though wise he be. 
He hath no better skill than ye ! 



THE TRUE STORY OF WEB-SPINNER. 

Web-Spinner was a miser old. 

Who came of low degree ; 
His body was large, his legs were thin, 

And he kept bad company; 
And his visage had the evil look 

Of a black felon grim ; 
To all the country he was known. 

But none spoke well of him. 
His house was seven stories high, 

In a corner of the street, 
And it always had a dirty look, 

When other homes were neat; 
Up in his garret dark he lived. 

And from the windows high 
Looked out in the dusky evening 

Upon the passers by. 
Most people thought he lived alone ; 

Yet many have averred. 
That dismal cries from out his house 

Were often loudly heard ; 
And that none living left his gate. 

Although a few went in. 
For he seized the very beggar old. 

And stripped him to the skin; 
And though he prayed for mercy. 

Yet mercy ne'er was shown — 
The miser cut his body up, 

And picked him bone from bone. 
Thus people said, and all believed 

The dismal story true ; 
As it was told to me, in truth, 

I tell it so to you. 
There was an ancient widow — 

One Madgy de la Moth, 
A stranger to the man, or she 

Had not gone there, in troth; 
But she was poor, and wandered out 

At nightfall in the street. 
To beg from rich men's tables 

Dry scraps of broken meat. 
So she knocked at old Web-Spinner's door, 

With a modest tap, and low. 
And down stairs came he speedily. 

Like an arrow from a bow. 
" Walk in, walk in, mother !" said he, 

And shut the door behind — 
159 



150 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



She thought for such a gentleman, 

That he was wondrous kind ; 
But ere the midnight clock had tolled, 

Like a tiger of the wood, 
He had eaten the flesh from off her bones. 

And. drank of her heart's blood ! 

Now after this fell deed was done, 

A little season's space, 
The burly Baron of Bluebottle 

Was riding from the chase : 
The sport was dull, the day was hot, 

The sun was sinking down. 
When wearily the Baron rode 

Into the dusty town. 
Says he, " I '11 ask a lodging 

At the first house I come to ;" 
With that the gate of Web-Spinner 

Came suddenly in view : 
Loud was the knock the Baron gave — 

Down came the churl with glee. 
Says Bluebottle, " Good sir, to-night 

I ask your courtesy ; 
I 'm wearied with a long day's chase — 

My friends are far behind." 
" You may need them all," said Web-Spiimer, 

" It runneth in my mind." 
" A Baron am I," says Bluebottle ; 

" From a foreign land I come." 
" I thought as much," said Web-Spinner, 

" Fools never stay at home !" 
Says the Baron, " Churl, what meaneth this ? 

I defy ye. Villain base !" 
And he wished the while in his inmost heart 

He was safely from the place. 

Web-Spinner ran and locked the door. 

And a loud laugh, laughed he ; 
With that each one on the other sprang. 

And they wrestled furiously. 
The Baron was a man of might, 

A swordsman of renown ; 
But the Miser had the stronger arm. 

And kept the Baron down : 
Then out he look a little cord, 

From a pocket at his side. 
And with many a crafty, cruel knot 

His hands and feet he tied ; 
And bound him down unto the floor. 

And said in savage jest, 
" There 's heavy work in store for you ; 

So, Baron, take your rest!" 
Then up and down his house he went, 

Arranging dish and platter. 
With a dull heavy countenance. 

As if nothing were the matter. 
At length he seized on Bluebottle, 

That strong and burly man, 
And with many and many a desperate tug. 

To hoist him up began : 
And step by step, and step by step, 

He went with heavy tread ; 



But ere he reached the garret door, 
Poor Bluebottle was dead! 

Now all this while, a Magistrate, 

Who lived the house hard by. 
Had watched Web-Spinner's cruelty 

Through a window privily : 
So in he bursts, through bolts and bars. 

With a loud and thundering sound, 
And vowed to burn the house with fire, 

And level it with the ground ; 
But the wicked churl, who all his life 

Had looked for such a day. 
Passed through a trap-door in the wall. 

And took himself away : 
But where he went no man could tell; 

'T was said that under ground. 
He died a miserable death. 

But his body ne'er was found. 
They pulled his house down stick and stone,- 

" For a caitiff vile as he," 
Said they, " within our quiet town 

Shall not a dweller be!" 



The actions of the Spider above described, were 
told me by a very intelligent man, who permitted the 
web to remain for a considerable time in his count- 
ing-house window, that he might have the means of 
closely observing its occupier's way of life. It was, 
as described above, under the semblance of a dwell- 
ing-house, seven stories high, and in each story was 
a small circular hole by which the spider ascended 
and descended at pleasure ; serving, in fact, all the 
purposes of a stair-case. His usual abode was in his 
seventh, or garret story, where he sat in a sullen sort 
of patience waiting for his prey. The small downy- 
winged moth was soon taken ; she was weak, and 
made but little resistance ; and was always eaten on 
the spot. His behaviour towards a heavy and noisy 
bluebottle fly was exactly as related. The fly seemed 
bold and insolent ; and hurled himself, as if in de- 
fiance, against the abode of his enemy. The spider 
descended in great haste, and stood before him, when 
an angry parley seemed to take place. The bluebot- 
tle appeared highly affronted, and plunged about like 
a wild horse ; but his efforts were generally unsuc- 
cessful ; the spider, watching an unguarded moment, 
darted behind him, and falling upon him with all his 
force, drew a fine thread from his side, with which 
he so completely entangled his prostrate victim, that 
it was impossible he could move leg or wing. The 
spider then set about making preparations for the 
feast, which, for reasons best known to himself, he 
chose to enjoy in his upper story. The staircase, 
which would admit his body, was too strait for that 
of his victim; he accordingly set about enlarging it, 
with a delicate pair of shears with which his head 
was furnished, and then with great adroitness he 
hoisted the almost exhausted Bluebottle to the top of 
his dwelling, where he fell upon him with every 
token of satisfaction. 

160 



SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY, 



161 



SPRING. 

Bright Creature, lift thy voice and sing, 
Like the glad birds, for this is Spring! 
Look up — the skies above are bright, 
And darkly blue as deep midnight; 
And piled-up, silvery clouds lie there. 
Like radiant slumherers of the air : 
And hark ! from every bush and tree 
Rings forth the wild-wood melody. 
The Blackbird and the Thrush sing out; 
And small birds warble round about, 
As if they were bereft of reason, 
In the great gladness of the season ; 
And though the hedge be leafless yet. 
Still many a little nest is set 
'Mong the twisted boughs so cunningly, 
Where early eggs lie, two or three. 
And hark I those Rooks the trees among. 
Feeding their never-silent young; 
A pleasant din it is, that calls 
The fancy to ancestral halls. 
But hush ! from out that warm wood's side, 
I hear a voice that ringeth wide — 
O, joyful Spring's sweet minstrel, hail! 
It is indeed the Nightingale, 
Loud singing in the morning clear, 
As poets ever love to hear! 
Look now abroad. — All creatures see. 
How they are filled with life and glee : 
This little Bee among the flowers 
Hath laboured since the morning hours, 
Making the pleasant air astir, 
And with its murmuring, pleasanter. 
See there ! the wavering Butterfly, 
With starting motion fluttering by. 
From leaf to leaf, from spray to spray, 
A thing whose life is holiday ; 
The little Rabbits too, are out. 
And Leverets skipping all about; 
And Squirrels, peeping fi-om their trees, 
A-start at every vagrant breeze ; 
For life, in the glad days of Spring, 
Doth gladden each created thing. 

Now green is every bank, and full 
Of flowers and leaves for all to pull. 
The Ficary, in each sunny place. 
Doth shine out like a merry face; 
The strong green Mercury, and the dear 
Fresh Violets of the early year. 
Peering their broad green leaves all through, 
In odorous thousands, white and blue ; 
And the broad Dandelion's blaze. 
Bright as the sun of summer's days ; 
And in the woods beneath the green 
Of budding trees are brightly seen. 
The nodding Blue-bell's graceful flowers. 
The Hyacin'.h of this land of ours — 
As fair as any flower that blows ; 
And here the pale Stellaria grows. 
Like Una with her gentle grace. 
Shining out in a shady place ; 
14* V 



And here, on open slopes we see 

The lightly-set Anemone ; 

Here too the spotted Arum green, 

A hooded mystery, is seen ; 

And in the turfy meadows shine. 

White Saxifrage and Cardamine; 

And acres of the Crocus make * 

A lustre like a purple lake. 

And overhead how nobly towers 

The Chestnut, with its waxen flowers. 

And broad green leaves, which all expand. 

Like to a giant's open hand. 

Beside you blooms the Hawthorn tree; 

And yonder the wild Cherry-tree, 

The fiiiry-lady of the wood ; 

And there the Sycamore's bursting bud, 

The Spanish-chestnut, and the Lime, 

Those trees of flowery summer-lime. 

Look up, the leaves are fresh and green. 

And every branching vein is seen 

Through their almost transparent sheen! 

Spirit of Beauty, thou dost fling 

Such grace o'er each created thing. 

That even a little leaf may stir 

The heart to be a worshipper ; 

And joy, which in the soul has birth 

From these brigiit creatures of the earth, — 

Good is it thou shouldst have thy way. 

Thou art as much of God as they ! 

Now let us to the garden go. 

And dig and delve, and plant and sow; 

The fresh dark mould is rich and sweet. 

And each flower-plot is trim and neat ; 

And Daffodil and Primrose see. 

And many-hued Anemone, 

As full of flower as they can be ; 

And here the Hyacinth sweetly pale. 

Recalling some old Grecian tale; 

And here the mild Narcissus too ; 

And every flower of every hue, 

Which the glad season sends, is here ; 

The Almond, while its branch is sere. 

With myriad blossoms beautified, 

As pink as the sea-shell's inside ; 

And, under the warm cottage-eaves, 

Among its clustered, budding leaves. 

Shines out the Pear-tree's flowers of snow. 

As white as any flowers that grow : 

And budding is the southern Vine, 

And Apricot and Nectarine; 

And Plum-trees in the garden warm. 

And Damsons round the coltage-larm. 

Like snow-showers shed upon the trees, 

And like them shaken by the breeze. 

Dear ones ! 't is now the time, that ye 

Sit down with zeal to botany; 

And names which were so hard and tough, 

Are easy now, and clear enough; 

For from the morn to evening's hours 

Your brisrht instructers are sweet flowers. 



* As in the Nutlingham Meadows. 
161 



152 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Go out through pleasant field and lane, 
And come back, glad of heart again. 
Bringing with you life's best of wealth. 
Knowledge, and joy of heart, and health ; 
Ere long each bank whereon ye look 
Will be to you an open book, 
And flowers, by the Creator writ. 
The characters inscribed on it ! 

Come let us forth into the fields ! 
Unceasing joy the season yields — 
Why should we tarry within door ? 
And see, the children of the poor 
Are out, all joy, and running races. 
With buoyant limbs and laughing faces. 
Thank heaven ! the sunshine and the air 
Are free to these young sons of care! 
Come, let us, too, be glad as they, 
For soon is gone the merry May ! 



THE NORTHERN SEAS. 

Up ! up ! let us a voyage take ; 

Why sit we here at ease ? 
Find us a vessel tight and snug. 

Bound for the Northern Seas. 

I long to see the Northern- Lights, 
With their rushing splendours fly ; 

Like living things with flaming wings, 
Wide o'er the wondrous sky. 

I long to see those ice-bergs vast. 
With heads all crowned with snow ; 

Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep. 
Two hundred fathoms low. 

I long to hear the thundering crash 

Of their terrific fall ; 
And the echoes from a thousand cliffs. 

Like lonely voices call. 

There shall we see the fierce White Bear ; 

The sleepy Seals a-ground, 
And the spouting Whales that to and fro 

Sail with a dreary sound. 

There may we tread on depths of ice, 
That the hairy Mammoth hide ; 

Perfect, as when in times of old, 
The mighty creature died. 

And while the unsetting sun shines on 
Through the still heaven's deep blue. 

We '11 traverse the azure waves, the herds 
Of the dread Sea-horse to view. 

We Ml pass the shores of solemn pine, 
Where Wolves and Black Bears prowl ; 

And away to the rocky isles of mist, 
To rouse the northern fowl. 

Up there shall start ten thousand wings 
With a rushing, whistling din; 

Up shall the Auk and Fulmar start, — 
All but the fat Penguin. 



And there in the wastes of the silent sky. 

With the silent earth below, 
We shall see far off to his lonely rock. 

The lonely Eagle go. 

Then softly, softly will we tread 

By inland streams, lo see 
Where the Pelican of the silent North, 

Sits there all silently. 

But if thou love the Southern Seas, 
And pleasant summer weather, 

Come, let us mount this gallant ship, 
And sail away together. 

W.H. 



THE SOUTHERN SEAS. 

Yes ! let us mount this gallant ship ; 

Spread canvas to the wind — 
Up! we will seek the glowing South — 

Leave Care and Cold behind. 
Let the Shark pursue through the waters blue 

Our flying vessel's track; 
Let strong winds blow, and rocks below 

Threaten, — we turn not back. 
Trusting in Him who holds the Sea 

In his Almighty hand, 
We '11 pass the awful waters wide — 

Tread many a far-off strand. 
Right onward as our course we hold, 

From day to day, the sky 
Above our head its arch shall spread 

More glowing, bright, and high. 
And from night to night — oh, what delight! 

In its azure depths to mark 
Stars all unknown come glittering out 

Over the ocean dark. 
The moon uprising like a sun. 

So stately, large, and sheen, 
And the very stars like clustered moons 

In the crystal ether keen. 
While all about the ship below. 

Strange fiery billows play, — 
The ceaseless keel through liquid fire 

Cuts wondrously its way. 
But O, the South ! the balmy South ! 

How warm the breezes float ! 
How warm the amber waters stream 

From off our basking boat. 
Come down, come doun from the tall ship's side! 

What a marvellous sight is here ! 
Look — purple ronks and crimson trees, 

Down in the deep so clear. 
See I where those shoals of Dolphins go, 

A glad and glorious band, 
S])orting among the day-bright woods 

Of a coral fairy-land. 
See ! on the violet sands beneath, 

How the gorgeous shells do glide ! 
Sea ! old Sea, who yet knows half 

Of thy wonders and thy pride ? 
163 



SKETCHES OP NATURAL HISTORY. 



153 



Look how the sea-plants tremWing float 

All like a Mermaid's locks, 
Waving in thread of ruby red 

Over those nether rocks. 
Heaving and sinking, soft and fair. 

Here hyacinth — there green — 
With many a stem of golden growth, • 

And starry flowers between. 
But away ! away ! to upper day — 

For monstrous shapes are here, — 
Monsters of dark and wallowing bulk, 

And horny eyeballs drear. 
The tusk'd mouth, and the spiny fin. 

Speckled and warted back. 
The glittering swift, and the flabby slow, 

Ramp through this deep-sea track. 
Away! away! to upper day. 

To glance o'er the breezy brine. 
And see the Nautilus gladly sail. 

The Flying-fish leap and shine. 
But what is that ? " 'Tis land I — 'tis land ! — 

'Tis land !" the sailors cry. 
Nay ! — 'tis a long and narrow cloud 

Betwixt the sea and sky. 
*• 'Tis land I 'tis land !" they cry once more — 

And now comes breathing on 
An odour of the living earth, 

Such as the sea hath none. 
But now I mark the rising shores ! — 

The purple hills ! — the trees ! 
Ah ! what a glorious land is here. 

What happy scenes are these ! 
See, how the tall Palms lift their locks 

From mountain clefts, — what vales, 
Basking beneath the noon-tide sun. 

That high and hotly sails. 
Yet all about the breezy shore, 

Unheedful of the glow. 
Look how the children of the South 

Are passing to and fro. 
What noble forms ! what fairy place ! 

Cast anchor in this cove, — 
Push out the boat, for in this land 

A little we must rove. 
We '11 wander on through wood and field, 

We '11 sit beneath the Vine ; 
We'll drink the limpid Cocoa milk, 

And pluck the native Pine. 
The Bread-fruit and Cassada-root, 

And many a glowing berry, 
Shall be our feast, for here at least, 

Why should we not be merry ? 
For 'tis a Southern Paradise, 

All gladsome, — plain, and shore, — 
A land so far, that here we are. 

But shall be here no more. 
We 've seen the splendid Southern clime, 

Its seas, and isles, and men, 
So now I — bank to a dearer land — 
To England back again ! 



THE GARDEN. 

I HAD a Garden when a child ; 

I kept it all in order; 
'T was full of flowers as it could be, 

And London-pride was its border. 

And soon as came the pleasant Spring, 

The singing birds built in it ; 
The Blackbird and the Throstle-cock, 

The Woodlark and ttie Linnet. 

And all within my Garden ran 

A labyrinth-walk so mazy; 
In the middle there grew a yellow Rose; 

At each end a Michaelmas Daisy. 

I had a tree of Southern Wood, 

And two of bright Mezereon ; 
A Peony root, a snow-white Phlox, 

And a bunch of red Valerian ; 

A Lilac tree, and a Guelder- Rose ; 

A Broom, and a Tiger-lily; 
And i walked a dozen miles to find 

The true wild Daflbdilly. 

I had Columbines, both pink and blue. 

And Thaliclrum like a feather; 
And the bright Goat's-bcard, that shuts its leaves 

Before a change of weather. 

I had Marigolds, and Gilliflowers, 

And Pinks all Pinks exceeding ; 
I 'd a noble root of Love-in-a-mist, 

And plenty of Love-lies-bleeding. 

I'd Jacob's Ladder, Aaron's Rod, 

And the Peacock-Gentianella ; 
I had -Asters, more than I can tell, 

And Lupins blue and yellow. 

I set a grain of Indian Corn, 

One day in an idle humour. 
And the grain sprung up six feet or more. 

My glory for a summer. 

I found far off in the plea.sant fields, 
More flowers than I can mention ; 

I found the English Asphodel, 

And the spring and autumn Gentian. 

I f()und the Orchis, fly and bee. 

And the Cistus of the mountain ; 
And the Money-wort, and the Adder's-tongue, 

Beside an old wood fountain. 

I found within another wood, 

The rare Pyrola blowing: 
P'or wherever there was a curious flower 

I was sure to find it growing. 

I set them in my garden beds. 

Those beds I loved so dearly. 
Where I laboured after set of sun, 

And in summer mornings early. 
1(33 



154 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



my pleasant garden-plot ! — 
A shrubbery was beside it, 

And an old and mossy Apple-tree, 
With a Woodbine wreathed to hide it. 

There was a bower in my garden-plot, 

A Spirasa grew before it ; 
Behind it was a Laburnum tree, 

And a wild Hop clambered o'er it. 

Ofttimes I sat within my bower. 
Like a king in all his glory ; 

Ofttimes I read, and read for hours, 
Some pleasant, wondrous story. 

1 read of Gardens in old times. 
Old, stately Gardens, kingly, 

Where people walked in gorgeous crowds, 
Or for silent musing, singly. 

I raised up visions in my brain, 

The noblest and the fairest ; 
But still I loved my Garden best, 

And thought it far the rarest. 

And all among my flowers I walked, 
Like a miser 'mid his treasure ; 

For that pleasant plot of Garden ground 
Was a world of endless pleasure. 



THE LION. 

Lion, thou art girt with might ! 
King by uncontested right ; 
Strength, and majesty, and pride 
Are in thee personified ! 
Slavish doubt or timid fear 
Never came thy spirit near ; 
What it is to fly, or bow 
To a mightier than thou. 
Never has been known to thee. 
Creature terrible and free ! 

Power the Mightiest, gave the Lion 
Sinews like to brands of iron ; 
Gave him force which never failed ; 
Gave a heart that never quailed. 
Triple-mailed coat of steel, 
Plates of brass from head to heel, 
Less defensive were in wearing 
Than the Lion's heart of daring ; 
Nor could towers of strength impart. 
Trust like that which keeps his heart. 

What are things to match with him ? 

Serpents old, and strong and grim, 

Seas upon a desert-shore. 

Mountain-wildernesses hoar. 

Night and storm, and earthquakes dire, 

Thawless frost and raging fire — 

All that 's strong, and stern and dark. 

All that doth not miss its mark, 

All that makes man's nature tremble, 

Doth the Desert-king resemble! 



When he sends his roaring forth. 
Silence falls upon the earth ; 
For the creatures great and small, 
Know his terror-breathing call. 
And as if by death pursued. 
Leave to him a solitude. 

Lion, thou art made to dwell 
In hot lands intractable. 
And thyself, the sun, the sand. 
Are a tyrannous triple band ; 
Lion-king and desert throne, 
All the region is thy own! 



THE FOX. 

In the rugged copse, in the ferny brake. 

The cunning red Fox his den doth make ; 

In the ancient turf of the baron's land. 

Where the gnarled oaks of the forest stand ; 

In the widow's garden lone and bare; 

On the hills which the poor man tills with care : 

There ages ago he made his den, 

And there he abideth in spite of men. 

'T is a dismal place, for all the floor 

With the bones of his prey is covered o'er : 

'T is darksome and lone, you can hardly trace 

The furthest nook of the dreary place ; 

And there he skulks, like a creature of ill. 

And comes out when midnight is dark and still ; 

When the dismal Owl, with his staring eye. 

Sends forth from the ruin his screeching cry. 

And the Bat on his black leathern wings goes by ; 

Then out comes the Fox with his thievish mind, 

Looking this way and that way, before and behind ; 

Then running along, thinking but of the theft 

Of the one little Hen the poor Widow has lefl; 

And he boldly and carelessly passes her shed, 

For he knows very well she is sleeping in bed. 

And that she has no Dog to give notice of foes. 

So he seizes his prey and home leisurely goes. 

And at times he steals down to the depth of the wood. 
And seizes the Partridge in midst of her brood ; 
And the little grey Rabbit, and young timid Hare; 
And the tall, stately Pheasant, so gentle and fair; 
And he buries them deep in some secret spot. 
Where he knows man or hound can discover them not. 
But vengeance comes down on the thief at length. 
For they hunt him out of his place of strength, 
And man and the Fox are at desperate strife. 
And the creature runs, and runs for his life: 
And following close is the snuding hound, 
.\nd hills and hollows they compass round , 
Till at length he is seized, a caitilT stout, 
And the wild dogs bark, and the hunters shout, 
And they cut ofT his tail and wave it on high. 
Saying, " Here fell the Fox so thievish and sly !" 
Thus may all oppressors of poor men die! 
Then again mounts each hunter, and all ride away. 
And have a good dinner to end the day ; 
j\nd they drink the red wine, and merrily sing, 
"Death to the Fox, and long life to the King!" 
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SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



155 



THE WOOD-MOUSE. 

D' YE know the little Wood-Mouse, 

That pretty little thing, 
That sits among the forest leaves, 

Beside the forest spring ? 

Its fur is red as the red chestnut. 

And it is small and slim ; 
It leads a life most innocent 

Within the forest dim. 

'T is a timid, gentle creature, 

And seldom comes in sight ; 
It has a long and wiry tail. 

And eyes both black and bright 

It makes its nest of soft, dry moss. 

In a hole so deep and strong ; 
And there it sleeps secure and warm. 

The dreary winter long. 

And though it keeps no calendar, 

It knows when flowers are springing ; 

And waketh to its summer life 
When Nightingales are singing. 

Upon the boughs the Squirrel sits. 
The Wood-Mouse plays below ; 

And plenty of food it finds itself 
Where the Beech and Chestnut grow. 

In the Hedge-Sparrow's nest he sits 
When its summer brood is fled. 

And picks the berries from the bough 
Of the Hawthorn over-head. 

I saw a little Wood-Mouse once, 

Like Oberon in his hall. 
With the green, green moss beneath his feet. 

Sit under a mushroom tall. 

I saw him sit and his dinner eat. 

All under the forest tree; 
His dinner of Chestnut ripe and red. 

And he ate it heartily. 

I wish you could have seen him there; 

It did my spirit good. 
To see the small thing God has made 

Thus eating in the wood. 

I saw that He regardeth them — 
Those creatures weak and small ; 

Their table in the wild is spread, 
By Him who cares for all ! 



THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 

AN APOLOGUE. 
A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD STORY. 

' Will you walk into my parlour ?" said the Spider 
to the Fly, 
I "'T is the prettiest little parlour that ever you did 
spy; 



The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, 
And 1 've many curious things to show when you are 

there." 
" Oh no, no," said the little Fly, " to ask me is in vain, 
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come 

down again." 

" I 'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up 

so high ; 
Will you rest upon my little bed ?" said the Spider 

to the Fly. 
" There are pretty curtains drawn around ; the sheets 

are fine and thin. 
And if you like to rest awhile, I '11 snugly tuck you in!" 
" Oh, no, no," said the little Fly, " for I 've often heard 

it said, 
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your 

bed!" 

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly, " Dear friend, 

what can I do. 
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you? 
I have within my pantry, good store of all that 's nice; 
1 'm sure you 're very welcome — will you please to 

take a slice ?" 
" Oh no, no," said the little Fly, " kind sir, that cannot 

be, 
I 've heard what 'a in your pantry, and I do not wish 

to see !" 

"Sweet creature!" said the Spider, " you 're witty 

and you 're wise. 
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant 

are your eyes! 
I 've a little looking-glass upon my parlour shelf. 
If you '11 step in one moment, dear, you shall behold 

yourself" 
" I thank you, gentle sir," she said, " for what you 're 

pleased to say, 
And bidding you good morning now, I '11 call another 

day." 

The Spider turned him round about, and went into 

his den. 
For well he knew the silly Fly would soon come 

back again: 
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly. 
And set his table ready, to dine upon the Fly. 
Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did 

sing, 
" Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, with the pearl and 

silver wing ; 
Your robes are green and purple — there 's a crest 

upon your head ; 
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are 

dull as lead!" 

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, 

Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flit- 
ting by ; 

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and 
nearer drew. 

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and 
purple hue — 

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Thinking only of her crested head — poor foolish 

thing ! At last, 
Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her 

fast. 
He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal 

den. 
Within his little parlour — but she ne'er came out 

again ! 

And now, dear little children, who may this story read. 
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne'er give 

heed ; 
Unto an evil counsellor, close heart and ear and eye, 
And take a lesson from this tale, of the Spider and 

the fly. 



THE TAILOR BIRD'S NEST AND THE 
LONG-TAILED TITxAIOUSE NEST. 

In books of travels I have heard 
Of a wise thing, the Tailor-bird ; 
A bird of wondrous skill, that sews, 
Upon the bough whereon it grows, 
A leaf into a nest so fair 
That with it nothing can compare; 
A light and lovely airy thing, 
That vibrates with the breeze's wing. 
Ah well ! it is with cunning power 
That little artist makes her bower; 
But come into an English wood, 
And I '11 show yon a work as good, 
A work the Tailor-bird's excelling, 
A more elaborate, snugger dwelling, 
More beautiful, upon my word. 
Wrought by a little English bird. 

There, where those boughs of black-thorn cross, 

Behold that oval ball of moss ; 

Look all the forest round and round, 

No fairer nest can e'er be found ; 

Observe it near, all knit together. 

Moss, willow-down, and many a feather, 

And filled within, as you may see, 

As full of feathers as can be ; 

Whence it is called by country folk, 

A fitting name, the Feather-poke ; 

But learned people, I have heard, 

Parus caudatus, call the bird. 

And others, not the learned clan, 

Call It Wood-pol, and Jug, and Can. 

Ay, here 's a nest! a nest indeed. 

That doth all other nests exceed, 

Propped with the black-thorn twigs beneath, 

And festooned with a woodbine wreath! 

Look at it near, all knit together. 

Moss, willow-down, and many a feather! 

So soft, so light, so wrought with grace, 

So suited to this green-wood place, 

And spangled o'er, as with the intent 

Of giving fitting ornament. 

With silvery flakes of lichen bright. 

That shine like opals, dazzling white ! 



Think only of the Creature small, 
That wrought this soft and silvery ball. 
Without a tool to aid her skill ; 
Nought but her little feet and bill — 
Without a pattern whence to trace 
This little roofed-in dwelling-place. 
And does not in your bosoms spring 
Love for this skilful little thing! 

See, there 's a window in the wall. 
Peep in, the house is not so small. 
But snug and cozy, you shall see 
A very decent family ! 
Now count them — one, two, three, four, five- 
Nay, sixteen merry things alive — 
Sixteen young chirping things, all set 
Where you your little hand could not get! 
I 'm glad you 've seen it, for you never 
Saw aught before so soft and clever! 



THE HUMMING-BIRD. 

The Humming-bird ! the Humming-bird, 

So fairy-like and bright ; 
It lives among the sunny flowers, 

A creature of delight! 

In the radiant islands of the East, 
Where fragrant spices grow, 

A thousand thousand Humming-birds 
Go glancing to and fro. 

Like living fires they flit about, 

Scarce larger than a bee, 
Among the broad Palmetto leaves. 

And through the Fan-palm tree. 

And in those wild and verdant woods 
Where stately Moras tower. 

Where hangs from branching tree to tree 
The scarlet Passion-flower; 

Where on the mighty river banks. 

La Plale or Amazon, 
The Cayman like an old tree trunk. 

Lies basking in the sun; 

There builds her nest, the Humming-bird 

Within the ancient wood, 
Her nest of silky cotton down. 

And rears her tiny brood. 

She hangs it to a slender twig. 
Where waves it light and free. 

As the Campanero tolls his song. 
And rocks the mighty tree. 

All crimson is her shining breast. 

Like to the red, red rose ; 
Her wing is the changeful green and blue 

That the neck of the Peacock shows. 

Thou happy, happy Humming-bird, 
No winter round thee lowers ; 

Thou never savv'st a leafless tree. 
Nor land without sweet flowers : 
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SKETCHES OF NATURAL HISTORY. 



157 



A reign of summer joyfulness 

To thee for life is given ; 
Thy food the honey from the flower, 

Thy drinlv, the dew from heaven ! 

How glad the heart of Eve would be, 

In Eden's glorious bowers, 
To see the first, first Humming-bird 

Among the first spring-flowers. 

Arnong the rainbow butterflies, 

I^fore the rainbow shone ; 
One moment glancing in her sight, 

Another moment, gone ! 

Thou little shining creature, 
God saved thee from the Flood, 

With the Eagle of the mountain land, 
And the Tiger of the wood ! 

Who cared to save the Elephant, 

He also cared for thee ; 
And gave those broad lands for thy home, 

Where grows the Cedar-tree ! 



THE OSTRICH. 

Not in the land of a thousand flowers. 
Not in the glorious Spice-wood bowers ; 
Not in fair islands by bright seas embraced, 
Lives the wild Ostrich, the bird of the waste. 
Come on to the Desert, his dwelling is there, 
Where the breath of the Simoom is jiot in the air; 
To the Desert, where never a green blade grew. 
Where never its shadow a broad tree threw. 
Where sands rise up, and in columns are wheeled 
By the winds of the Desert, like hosts in the field ; 
Where the Wild Ass sends forth a lone, dissonant 

bray. 
And the herds of the Wild Horse speed on through 

the day — 
The creatures unbroken, with manes flying free. 
Like the steeds of the whirlwind, if such there maybe. 
Yes, there in the Desert, like armies for war. 
The flocks of the Ostrich are seen from afar. 
Speeding on, speeding on o'er the desolate plain. 
While the fleet mounted Arab pursuelh in vain! 
But 'tis joy to the traveller who toils through that 

land, 
rhe egg of the Ostrich to find in the sand ; 
'Tis sustenance for him when his store is low. 
And weary with travel he journeyeth slow 
To the well of the Desert, and finds it at last 
Seven days' journey from that he hath passed. 

Or go to the CafTre-land, — what if yon meet 
A print in the sand, of the strong Lion's feet ! 
He is down in the thicket, asleep in his lair; 
Come on to the Desert, the Ostrich is there — 
There, there! where the Zebras are flying in haste. 
The herd of the Ostrich comes down o'er the waste — 
Half running, half flying — what progress they make! 
Twang the bow ! not the arrow their flight can o'er- 
take! 



Strong bird of the Wild, thou art gone like the wind. 
And thou leavest the cloud of thy speeding behind ; 
Fare thee well ! in thy desolate region, farewell. 
With the Giraffe and Lion, we leave thee to dwell I 



THE DORMOUSE. 

The little Dormouse is tawny red ; 

He makes against winter a nice snug bed. 

He makes his bed in a mossy bank. 

Where the plants in the summer grow tall and rank. 

Away from the daylight, far under ground. 

His sleep through the winter is quiet and sound. 

And when all above him it freezes and snows, 

What is it to him for he naught of it knows ? 

And till the cold time of the winter is gone, 

The little Dormouse keeps sleeping on. 

Rut at last, in the fresh breezy days of the spring, 
When the green leaves bud, and the merry birds 

sing. 
And the dread of the winter is over and past. 
The little Dormouse peeps out at last. 
Out of his snug, quiet burrow he wends. 
And looks all about for his neighbours and friends ; 
Then he says, as he sits at the foot of a larch, 
" 'Tis a beautiful day, for the first of March ! 
The Violet is blowing, the blue sky is clear; 
The Lark is upspringing, his carol I hear ; 
And in the green fields are the Lamb and the Foal ; 
I am glad I 'm not sleeping now down in my hole !" 

Then away he runs, in his merry mood, 
Over the fields and into the wood, 
To find any grain there may chance to be, 
Or any small berry that hangs on the tree. 
So, from early morning, till late at night. 
Has the poor little creature its own delight. 
Looking down to the earth and up to the sky. 
Thinking, " what a happy Dormouse am I!" 



THE WILD FRITILLARY, 

FAMILIARLY CALLED THE WEEPING WIDOW, 
OR THE MOURNING BRIDE. 

LiivE a drooping thing of sorrow. 
Sad to-day, more sad to-morrow ; 
Like a widow dark weeds wearing. 
Anguish in her bosom bearing ; 
Like a nun in raiment sable. 
Sorrow-bowed, inconsolable; 
Like a melancholy fairy. 
Art thou, Meadow-Fritillary ! 

Like the head of snake enchanted. 
Where whilom the life hath panted, 
.*.ll its purple checquerings scaly 
Growing cold and dim and paly ; 
Like a dragon's head half moulded. 
Scaly jaws together folded, 

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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Is the bud so dusk and airy 
Of the wild Field-Fritillary! 

Like a joy my memory knoweth — 
In my native fields it grovveth ; 
Like the voice of one long parted, 
Calling to the faithful-hearted ; 
Like an unexpected pleasure 
That hath neither stint nor measure ; 
Like a bountiful good fairy, 
Do I hail thee, Friiiilary ! 



THE SQUIRREL. 

The pretty, black Squirrel lives up in a tree, 

A little blithe creature as ever can be; 

He dwells in the boughs where the Stockdove broods, 

Far in the shades of the green summer woods ; 

His food is the young juicy cones of the Pine, 

And the milky Beach-nut is his bread and his wine. 

In the joy of his nature he frisks with a bound 

To the topmost twigs, and then down to the ground ; 

Then up again, like a winged thing. 

And from tree to tree with a vaulting spring ; 

Then he sits up aloft, and looks waggish and queer. 

As if he would say, " Ay, follow me here !" 

And then he grows pettish, and stamps his foot ; 

And then independently cracks his nut ; 

And thus he lives the long summer thorough, 

Without a care or a thought of sorrow. 

But small as he is, he knows he may want. 

In the bleak winter weather, when food is scant, 

So he finds a hole in an old tree's core. 

And there makes his nest, and lays up his store ; 

And when cold winter comes, and the trees are bare. 

When the white snow is falling, and keen is the air, 

He heeds it not, as he sits by himself. 

In his warm little nest, with his nuts on his shelf. 

O, wise little Squirrel ! no wonder that he 

In the green summer woods is as blithe as can be ! 



THE DRAGON-FLY. 

With wings like crystal air. 

Dyed with the rainbow's dye; 
Fluttering here and there, 
Pr'yihee tell me. Dragon-fly, 
Whence thou comest, 
Where thou roamest. 
Art thou of the earth or sky ? 

'Mong plumes of Meadow-sweet 

I see thee glance and play, 
Or light with airy feet 
Upon a nodding spray, 
Or sailing slow, 
I see thee go 
I' th' sunshine far away. 



Tell me, pr'ythee. Dragon-fly, 
What and whence thou art ? 
Whether art of earth or sky. 
Or of flowers a part ? 
And who, together 
This fine weather 
Put thee, glorious as thou art ? 

He maketh no reply. 

But all things answer loud, 

" Who formed the Dragon-fly, 

Formed sun and sea and cloud ; 

Formed flower and tree ; 

Formed me and thee, 

With nobler gifts endowed !" 

Save for the Eternal Thought, 

Bright shape thou hadst not been. 
He from dull matter wrought 
Thy purple and thy green ; 
And made thee take, 
E'en for my sake, 
Thy beauty and thy sheen ! 



THE WILD SPRING-CROCUS. 

Ah, though it is an English flower, 
It only grovveth here and there : 

Through merry England you might ride; 

Through all its length, from side to side; 

Through fifty counties, nor have spied 
This flower so passing fair. 

But in our meadows it is growing. 
And now it is the early Spring; 

And see from out the kindly earth 

How thousand thousands issue forth. 

As if it gloried to give birth 
To such a lovely thing. 

Like lilac-flame its colour glows. 
Tender, and yet so clearly bright, 

That all for miles and miies about. 

The splendid meadow shineth out ; 

And far-ofl[" village children shout 
To see the welcome sight. 

I love the odorous Hawthorn flower, 
1 love the Wilding's bloom to see ; 

I love the light Anemonies, 

That tremble to the faintest breeze ; 

And hyacinth-like Orchises, 
Are very dear to me ! 

The Star-wort is a fairy-flower ; 

The Violet is a thing to prize ; 
The Wild-pink on the craggy ledge, 
The waving sword-like Water-sedge, 
And e'en the Robin-run-i'th'-hedge 

Are precious in my eyes. 

Yes, yes, I love them all, bright things ! 

But then, such glorious flowers as these 
Are dearer still — I '11 tell you why, 
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There 's joy in many a thousand eye 
When first goes forth the welcome cry, 
Of " lo, the Crocuses I" 

Then little, toiling children leave 

Their care, and here by thousands throng, 
And through the shining meadow run. 
And gather them, not one by one. 
But by grasped handfuls, where are none 
To say that they do wrong. 

They run, they leap, they shout for joy; 

They bring their infant brethren here ; 
They fill each little pinafore ; 
They bear their baskets brimming o'er ; 
Within their very hearts they store 

This first joy of the year. 

Yes, joy in these abundant meadows 
Pours out like to the earth's o'erflowing ; 

And, less that they are beautiful. 

Than that they are so plentiful, 

So free for every child to pull, 
I love to see them growing. 

And here, in our own fields they grow — 
An English flower, but very rare ; 

Through all the kingdom you may ride, 

O'er marshy flat, on mountain side. 

Nor ever see, outstretching wide. 
Such flowery meadows fair! 



THE SWALLOW. 

Twittering Swallow, fluttering Swallow, 

Art come back again ? 
Come from water-bed or hollow, 

Where thou, winter-long, hast Jain? 
Nay, I '11 not believe it. Swallow, 
Not in England hast thou tarried ; 
Many a day 
Far away 
Has thy wing been wearied, 
Over continent and isle. 
Many and many and many a mile ! 
Tell me, pr'ythee bird, the story 
Of thy six months migratory ! 

If thou wert a human traveller. 
We a quarto book should see ; 

Thou wouldst be the sage unraveller 
Of some dark old mystery ; 

Thou wouldst tell the wise men. Swallow, 

Of the rivers' hidden fountains ; 
Plain and glen. 
And savage men. 

And Afghauns of the mountains ; 

Creatures, plants, and men unknown, 

And cities in the Deserts lone : 

Thou wouldst be, thou far-land dweller, 

Like an Arab story-teller! 

Was it in a temple. Swallow ; 
In some Moorish minaret, 
15 W 



In some cavern's gloomy hollow. 

Where the Lion and Serpent met. 
That thy nest was builded, Swallow ? 
Did the Negro people meet thee 

With a word 

Of welcome, bird. 
Kind as that with which we greet thee ? 
Pr'ythee tell me how and where 
Thou wast guided through the air ; 
Pr'ythee cease thy building-labour. 
And tell thy travel-story, neighbour ! 

Thou hast been among the Cafll-es ; 

Seen the Bushman's stealthy arm. 
Thou hast heard the lowing heifers 

On some good Herrnhuter's farm ; 
Seen the gold-dust-finder, Swallow, 
Heard the Lion-hunter's holla ! 
Peace and strife. 
And much of life 
Hast thou witnessed, wandering Swallow. 
Tell but this, we '11 leave the rest. 
Which is wisest, which is best ; 
Tell, which happiest, if thou can, 
Hottentot or Englishman ? — ' 

Naught for answer can we get. 
Save twitter, twitter, twitter, twet ! 



THE SEA. 

The Sea it is deep, the Sea it is wide ; 
And it girdeth the earth on every side. 
On every side it girds it round. 
With an undecaying, mighty bound. 

When the Spirit of God "came down at first, 
Ere the day from primal night had burst, 
Before the mountains sprung to birth. 
The dark, deep waters veiled the earth. 

Like a youthful giant roused from sleep. 
At Creation's call uprose the Deep, 
And his crested waves tossed up their spray. 
As the bonds of his ancient rest gave way ; 
And a voice went up in that stillness vast. 
As if life through a mighty heart had passed. 
Oh ancient, wide, unfathomed Sea, 
Ere the mountains were, God fashioned thee ; 
And he gave in thine awful depths to dwell 
Things like thyself untameable — 
The Dragons old, and the Harpy brood. 
Were the lords of thine early solitude ! 

But night came down on that ancient day, 
And that mighty race was swept away ; 
And death thy fathomless depths passed through ; 
And thy waters meted out anew; 
And then on thy calmer breast were seen 
The verdant crests of islands green ; 
And mountains in their strength came forth, 
And trees and flowers arrayed the earth ; 
Then the Dolphin first his gambols played 
In his rainbow-tinted scales arrayed ; 
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160 



HO WITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And down below all fretted and frore. 
Were wrought the coral and madrepore; 
And among the sea-weeds green and red, 
Like flocks of" the valley the Turtles fled ; 
And the sea-flowers budded and opened wide 
In the lustre of waters deepened and dyed ; 
And the little Nautilus set afloat 
On thy bounding tide his pearly boat ; 
And the Whale sprang forth in his vigorous play ; 
And shoals of the Flying- fish leaped into day ; 
And the Pearl-fish under thy world of waves 
, Laid up his stores in the old sea-caves. 
Then man came down, and with silent awe 



The majesty of waters saw ; 

And he felt like an humbled thing of fear, 

As he stood in that Presence august, severe. 

Till he saw how the innocent creatures played 

In the billowy depths and were not afraid ; 

Till he saw how ihe Nautilus spread his sail, 

And caught as it blew the favouring gale ; 

And great and small through the watery realm 

Were steered as it were by a veering helm ; 

Then his heart grew bold, and his will grew strong. 

And he pondered in vigilant thought not long 

Ere he fashioned a boat of a hollow tree. 

And thus became lord of the mighty Sea. 



KuUu in Wtvut. 



PREFACE. 



Perhaps some of my young readers may be 
tempted to turn critical, and say that some of the 
pieces herein set forth are not strictly entitled to the 
name of tales; I think it best, therefore, to plead 
guilty at once, and explain that the title was adopted 
as the most simple, and, at the same time, sufficiently 
expressive of the bulk of Ihe contents. The poems 
in this volume which are not literally stories, will, I 
hope, find such favour in the eyes of my young 
friends, that they shall not deem them unfitting com- 
panions to the best tales amongst them. 

I can wish no better for my kind young readers, so 
far as the book is concerned, than that it may become 
as popular amongst them as the Sketches of Natural 
History which I wrote for them some time ago. 

Nottingham, Jane lOlk, 1836. 



OLDEN TIMES. 

DEDICATED, WITH MUCH RESPECT, TO 
JUVENILE ANTIQUARIANS. 

The fields with corn are rich and deep, 

Which only he who sows can reap; 

And in old woodlands' grassy lea 

Are cattle grazing peacefully ; — 

And hamlet-homes in valleys low 

Fear neither famine, fire, nor Ibe. 

A thousand busy towns are rife 

With prosperous sounds of trade and life, 

And bustling crowds are in the streets, 

Where man is friend with all he meets. 

No need is there of city-wall. 

Nor gates to shut at evening-fall ; 

For, know ye not, the land I praise 

Is England in these happy days I 

It was not thus in wood and wold, — 

It was not thus in limes of old ; 



Where waves the corn, the red fern bowed 
On heathy turf that ne'er was ploughed ; 
And boundless tracts were covered o'er 
With mossy bog, and barren moor ; 
The green hill-slopes, the pastoral lea. 
Were shadowed by the forest-lree ; 
And herds of deer, of nought afraid, 
Went bounding through the greenwood shade ; 
And 'mong the leafy boughs above. 
Loud screamed the jay, and cooed the dove ; 
The squirrel sprung from tree to tree. 
The timid badger gamboled free, 
And the red fox barked dismally ; 
And the grim wolf, at close of day. 
Made the lone mountain herds his prey. 
Then fasts were held, and prayers were said 
When knight or yeoman journeyed, 
For peril great was on the road. 
Where'er a daring traveller trode ; 
And ever as they came or went. 
Before the way-side cross they bent. 
Their beads to tell, their prayers to say, 
And crave protection for the way. 
Yet, save when quiet woodmen passed 
Silently through the forest vast. 
Or hermit stole from out his cell, 
Down to some holy way-side well, 
Or portly monk, in habit grey, 
And long black cowl, rode by the way, 
Or pilgrim went with staff in hand, 
To some famed shrine across the land. 
But rarely man had man in view. 
For travellers in this land were few. 
Yet at times upon the breeze was borne 
The gallant sound of hunter's horn ; 
And barons from their halls came forth. 
With leashed hounds, and sounds of mirth ; 
And dames in quaint, embroidered dresses. 
And hooded hawks with bells and jesses; 
With yeomen bold a thousand strong, 
Careered right gallantly along, 
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TALES IN VERSK 



161 



And at times, stout men, like Robin Hood, 
With outlawed dwellers of the wood, 
With their merry men, clad all in green, 
A hunting in the woods were seen. 

Not then each golden harvest-field 
Was reaped for him whose toil had tilled ; 
Little was recked of cruel wrong — 
The weak man lalwured for tlie strong ; 
And civil war fierce ruin wrought, 
And battles, many a one, were fought ; 
And the old remnants of the slain. 
Moulder on hill, and heath, and plain. 
Then, learning was of little note. 
And, saving monks, none read nor wrote ; 
And even kings, with nought of shame. 
Confessed they could not sign their name! 
Then ladies' lives were dull, for they 
Wrought tapestry-work from day to day ; 
And peasant-women, brown with toil, 
Tilled with the men the barren soil. 
Then towns were few, and gmall and lone, 
Inclosed with massy walls of stone ; 
And at each street an outer gate, 
To shut before the day grew late ; 
And not a lamp might give its light. 
After the curfew rung at night. 
And if perchance it happened so 
That a traveller came on journey slow. 
In scarlet cloak and leathern belt, 
And high-crowned hat of sable felt. 
And huge jack-boots, and iron-spur. 
Riding, the king's grave messenger, 
How stared the townsfolk, half aghast, 
As solemnly he onward passed 
To the low hostel, built of wood ! 
And how in wandering groups they stood. 
With questions poured out amain. 
To see him journey liirth again ! 

Another day of blither cheer 

Might come, some three times in the year. 

When the customed traders came with packs 

Of needful things on horses' backs ; 

With jingling bells to the leader's rein. 

Sounding afar on the narrow lane ; — 

A long array of near a score. 

With armed riders on before ; 

And the men of trade with visage thin, 

In travelling caps of badger skin. 

And rough, huge cloaks, and ponderous gear 

Of arms and trappings closed the rear. 

On went they, guests of special grace. 

On to the little market-place ; — 

And quickly might be purchased there. 

From the ShefTieldman his cutler-ware; 

And winter garb, and woollen vest. 

From the sturdy weaver of the West ; 

And scarlet hose, and 'broidered shoon. 

And wooden bowl, and horny spoon ; 

Buckles and bells, and caps of hide. 

And a thousand other things beside. 

Till the townsfolk had laid in their store, 

And the traders could sell nothing more. 



Then at dawn of day the sober train 

Set out upon their way again ; 

Travelling on by dale and down. 

Warily to some distant town — 

Or to some dark, grey castle tall, 

Guarded with drawbridge, moat, and wall; 

With porter stern, and bloodhounds grim. 

With towers of strength, and dungeons dim; 

Where minstrels stood with pipes to plajr. 

And a jester jibed the livelong day ; — 

Or to halt in some green vale before 

The monastery's gothic door. 

To meekly ask. with speaking eye. 

What the lord Abbot chose to buy — 

Or ermine soft, or linen fine, 

Or precious flasks of foreign wine ? 

Thus was it in the days of old 

Men lived, and thus they bought and sold ; 

Sordid, and ignorant, and poor, 

Was baron bold and churlish boor. 

'Tis well for ye your da)-s are cast, 

When ignorance, like a cloud, has passed. 

And God has showered his blessings down. 

On wood and wild, in tower and town. 

And all in peace and plenty dwell ; 

And so thank Heaven, — and fare-ye-well ! 



MADAM FORTESCUE AND HER CAT. 

AN ILLUSTRATION OF THREE PICTURES, DE- 
SIGNED AND DRAWN BY ANNA MARY HOW- 
ITT, FOR HER BROTHER CLAUDE. 



PART I. 



Within this picture, ynu may view 
The Cat and Madam Fortescue — 
And very snon you will difcover. 
That Mislrees Pussy " lived in clover." 

This is a nice pleasant parlour. 
As you may see in a minute ; 

It belongs to Madam Fortescue, 
And there she sits in it. 

That 's the dear old lady. 

In a green tabby gown. 
And a great lace cap. 

With long lace ruffles hanging dowa 

There she sits 

In a cushioned high-backed seat. 
Covered over with crimsoned damask. 

With a footstool at her feet. 

You see what a handsome room it is, 
Full of old carving and gilding ; 

The house is, one may be sure. 

Of the Elizabethan style of building. 
171 



162 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It is a pleasant place; 


So she smiled, and was smooth-spoken, 


And through the window one sees 


And the lady said, "Crabthorn, 


Into old-fashioned gardens 


You are the best waiting woman 


Full of old yew trees. 


That ever was born! 


And on that table, — that funny table, 


" And when I die, good Crabthorn, 


With the curious thin legs, — 


In my will it shall appear. 


Stand little tea-cups, a china jar, 


That my cat I leave to you, . 


And great ostrich eggs. 


And fifty pounds a year. 


One can see in a moment, 


" For I certainly think, Crabthorn, 


That she is very rich indeed ; 


You will love her for my sake !" 


With nothing to do, all day long, 


" That I shall !" said the wailing woman. 


But sit in a chair and read. 


" And all my pleasure will she make !" 


And those are very antique chairs. 


Now all this has been said and done 


So heavy and so strong ; 


This very day, I am sure — 


The seats are tent-stitch, the lady's work, 


For there lies the lady's will. 


All done when she was young. 


Tied up with red tape secure. 


And that 's Mr. Fortescue's portrait. 




That hangs there on the wall. 




In the thunder-and-lightning coat, 


PART II. 


The bag-wig and all. 




Very old-fashioned and stately. 


" New men, new measures," as 'tig said ; 


With a sword by his side ; 


Now Madam Fortescue is dead — 




And the poor Cat, aa we shall show. 


But t IS many a long year now, 


In little time doth suffer woe. 


Since the old gentleman died. 




Thus you see the room complete, 


Now comes the second picture ; 


With a Turkey carpet on the floor ; 


And here we shall discover. 


And get a peep into other rooms 


That the poor pussy now 


Through that open door. 


No longer lives in clover. 


But the chiefest thing of all 


For she gets no sups of cream, — 


We have yet passed over, 


Not even a crumb of bread ; 


The tortoise-shell cat, which our motto says 


Cross Mrs. Crabthorn rules the house. 


" Now lives in clover." 


Now Madam Fortescue is dead. 


Meaning she has nothing to do. 


And the fine crimson cushion, 


All the long year through, 


Into the lumber-room is thrown — 


But sleep and take her meals 


Only look at that poor cat. 


With good Madam Fortescue. 


She would melt a heart of stone. 


Only look, on that crimson cushion. 


She may well look so forlorn, — 


Hqw soft and easy she lies. 


Poor creature I that she may ; 


Just between sleep and wake. 


And only think what kicks she 's had. 


With half buttoned-up eyes! 


And nothing to eat all day ? 


And good Madam Fortescue, 


This, then, is the dressing room. 


She lifts her eyes from her book, 


Grand and stately as you can see ; 


To see if she want anything. 


Yet everything in the room 


And to give her a loving look. 


Looks as solemn as can be ! 


But now turn your eyes 


The very peacock's feathers 


Behind this great Indian screen,— 


Over the old glass on the wall. 


There sits Madam Fortescue's woman 


Look like great mourning plumes 


Very crabbed and very lean. 


Waving at a funeral. 


She makes believe to her lady. 


And that glass in the black frame; 


To be very fond of the cat ; 


And the footstool on the floor, 


But she hates her. 


And the chair where Madam sate to dress, 


And pinches when she pretends to pat. 


But where she '11 sit no more ! 


But the lady never knows it. 


Everything looks as if some 


For the cat can but mew ; 


Great sorrow would befall ! 


She can tell no tales, however ill used, 


See there 's the old tabby gown 


And that Mrs. Crabthorn knew. 


Hanging on the wall; 



172 



TALES IN VERSE. 



163 



And there 's the lace cap, — 

But there 's no lace border on it ; 

And in that half-open box. 
Is the dear old lady's bonnet. 

And there lie the black silk mits, 
And the funny high-heeled shoes; 

And there the pomatum-pot, 
And the powder-puffs she used to use. 

But she will never use them more, 
Neither to-day nor to-morrow ! 

She is dead — and gone from this world, 
As the cat knows to her sorrow ! 

But now through that open door, 

If you take a peep, 
You see the great stately bed. 

On which she used to sleep. 

And there rests her coffin 

On that very stately bed, — 
For you must clearly understand, 

That Madam Fortescue is dead ! 

See now, in this dressing-room, 

There sits the poor cat ; 
Could you have thought a few days 

Would make a change like that ? 

See, how woe-begone she looks — 

In what miserable case, 
I really think I see the tears 

All running down her face ! 

She has reason enough to cry, poor thing. 

She has had a great loss ! 
She had a mistress, the best in the world, 

She has one now — so cross! 

There she sils trembling, 
And hanging down her head. 

As if she knew misfortune was come, 
Now Madam Fortescue is dead ! 

And look, there stands Mrs. Crablhorn, 

With a rope in her hand. 
Giving to that surly fellow 

A very strict command. 

For what ? to hang the cat ! 

" For then, Soroggin," says she, 
" I shall still have my fifty pounds a-year. 

And what 's the cat to me ! 

" To be sure I promised Madam 
To love the cat like a relation, — 

But now she is dead and gone. 
Why that 's no signification ! 

" And cats I never could bear. 

And I '11 not be plagued with that ; 

So take this new rope, Scroggin, 
And see you hang the cat! 

" Be sure to do it safely, — 
Hang her with the rope double ; 

And her skin will make you a cap. 
Friend Scroggin, for your trouble !" 
15* 



Poor thing, she hears their words - 
Well may she moan and sob ; 

He is an ill-looking fellow, 
And seems to like the job ! 

He will take the rope with joy, 
He 's no pity — not he ! 

And in less than half an hour, 
She'll be hanging on a tree! 



PART III. 

Now in this third part you will see. 
The end of Crabthorn's treachery ; 
How she had cause to rue the day 
Whereon the Cat was made away. 

See now my dear brother 

This is the great dining-hall, 
Where the company is assembled 

After the funeral. 

It is a very noble room ; 

But now we cannot stay. 
We must look at the old wainscot. 

And the pictures some other day. 

See, here sits the company. 

The heir and all the cousins 
The nephews and the grand-nephews, 

And the nieces by dozens. 

And there is the lawyer 

Reading the lady's will. 
For an hour they 've sat listening. 

All of them, stock still. 

The lawyer he has just reached 

To where the will said, 
" Mrs. Crabthorn shall have fifty pounds 

A-year, till the cat be dead. 

" That fifty pounds a-year 

Shall be left to her to keep 
The cat in good condition, 

With a cushion whereon to sleep ; 

" That as long as the cat live 

The money shall be her due." 
And the old lady prayed her, in her will, 

To be a loving guardian and true. 

" Goodness me !" screamed Mrs. Crabthorn, 
"The cat's dead, I do declare! 

Who thought that Madam meant the money 
Only for the cat's share ! 

" Lawk sirs, she loved my lady 
More than all the world beside ; 

And so, like any Christian, 
She took to her bed and died ! 

" She died of grief for my lady. 
On the third day and no other!" 

"You shall not be f>rgotten, Crabthorn I" 
Said good Madam Fortescue's brother. 
173 



164 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And with ihat up jumps Scroggin, 

You see where he stands, 
Dangling the very rope 

In his great, rough hands. 

And moreover than that, 

To malie it past a doubt. 
There 's the cat-skin in his poci«et. 

Which he will presently pull out. 

And he tells all the company 

Assembled there that day. 
How Crabthorn had misused the cat. 

And had her made away. 

Novi' if you inquire of me 

Why her death he did not smother, 
I can only say, bad people 

Often betray one another. 

And T can very well suppose 

They have quarrelled since that day. 
And now to be revenged on her 

He determines to betray. 

But you see how angry she is. 
How her face is in a blaze ; 

But she deserved her disappointment. 
And so every one says. 

And now remember this. 

My dear little brother. 
Never be unkind or cruel 

To one thing or another. 

For nobody knows how sorely 
They may have cause to repent ; 

And always, sooner or later. 
There comes a punishment ! 



ANDREW LEE, 

THE FISHER BOY. 

Ah! Fisher Boy, I well know thee, 
Brother thou art to Marion Lee ! 
What! didst thou think I knew thee not, 
Couldst thou believe I had forgot? 
For shame, for shame ! what ? I forget 
The treasures of thy laden net ! 
And how we went one day together, 
One day of showery summer weather. 
Up the sea-shore, and lor an hour 
Stood sheltering from a pelting shower. 
With an upturned, ancient boat. 
That had not been lor years afloat ! . 
No, no, my boy ! I liked too well 
The old sea-stories thou didst tell ; 
I liked too well thy roguish eye — 
Thy merry speech — thy laughter sly ; 
Thy old sea-jacket, to forget, — 
And then the treasures of thy net ! 

Oh Andrew ! thou hast not forgot, 
I 'm very sure that thou hast not, 



All that we talked about that day, 

Of famous countries far away ! 

Of Crusoes in their islands lone, 

That never were, nor will be known, 

And yet this very moment stand 

Upon some point of mountain land. 

Looking out o'er the desert sea. 

If chance some coming ship there be. 

Thou know'st we talked of this — thou know'st 

We talked about a ship-boy's ghost — 

A wretched little orphan lad 

Who served a master stern and bad, 

And had no friend to take his part, 

And perished of a broken heart; 

Or by his master's blows, some said, 

For in the boat they found him dead, 

And the boat's side was stained and red ! 

And then we talked of many a heap 

Of ancient treasure in the deep. 

And the great serpent that some men. 

In far-off seas, meet now and then ; 

Of grand sea-palaces that shine 

Through forests of old coralline ; 

And wondrous creatures that may dwell 

In many a crimson Indian shell ; 

Till I shook hands with thee, to see 

Thou wast a poet — Andrew Lee ! 

Though thou wast guiltless all the time 

Of putting any thoughts in rhyme ; 

Ah, lillle fisher boy! since then, 

Ladies I 've seen and learned men. 

All clever, and some great and wise. 

Who study all things, earth and skies. 

Who much have seen, and much have read. 

And famous things have writ and said ; 

But Andrew, never have I heard 

One who so much my spirit stirred, 

As he who sate with me an hour. 

Screened from the pelting thunder-shower — 

Now laughing in his merry wit; 

Now talking in a serious fit. 

In speech that poured like water free ; 

And that was thou — poor Andrew Lee ! 

Then shame to think I knew thee not — 
Thou hast not, nor have I forgot ; 
And long 't will be ere I forget 
How thou took'st up thy laden net, 
And gave me all that it contained. 
Because I too thy heart had gained ! 



THE WANDERER'S RETURN. 

There was a girl of fair Provence, 

Fresh as a flower in May, 
Who 'neath a spreading plane-tree sat«, 

Upon a summer-day, , 
And thus unto a mourner young. 

In a low voice did say. 

174 



TALES IN VERSE. 



165 



" And said I, I shall dance no more ; 


" At length she said, ' I '11 see my son 


For though but young in years, 


In life if yet he be, 


I knew what makes men wise and sad, — 


Or else the turf that covers him!' 


Affection's ceaseless fears. 


When sank she on her knee. 


And that dull aching of the heart, 


And clasped her hands in silent prayer. 


Which is not eased by tears. 


And wept most piteously. 


"But sorrow will not always last. 


" She went into the distant town. 


Heaven keeps our griefs in view ; 


Still asking everywhere 


Mine is a simple tale, dear friend. 


For tidings of her long-lost son : — 


Yet I will tell it you; 


In vain she made her prayer ; 


A simple tale of household grief 


All were so full of woe themselves. 


And household gladness too. 


No pity had they to spare. 


"My father in the battle died, 


"To hear her tell that tale would move 


And left young children three; 


The sternest heart to bleed ; 


My brother JMarc, a noble lad, 


She was a stranger in that place. 


With spirit bold and free. 


Yet none of her took heed ; 


More kind than common brothers are ; 


And bi«)ken-hearted she came back, 


And Isabel and me. 


A bowed and bruised reed. 


" When Marc was sixteen summers old. 


" I marked her cheek yet paler grow, 


A tall youth and a strong, 


More sunken yet her eye ; 


Said he, ' I am a worthless drone. 


And to my soul assurance came 


I do my mother wrong — 


That she was near to die, 


I '11 hence and win the bread I eat, 


And hourly was my earnest prayer 


I 've burdened you too long !' 


Put up for her on high. 


" Oh ! many tears my mother shed ; 


" Oh, what a woe seemed then to us. 


And earnestly did pray. 


The friendless orphan's fate .' 


That he would still abide with us, 


I dared not picture to my mind, 


And be the house's stay ; 


How drear, how desolate — 


And be like morning to her eyes. 


But, like a frightened thing, my heart 


As he had been alway. 


Shrunk from a pang so great! 


"But Marc he had a steadfast will. 


" We rarely left my mother's side. 


A purpose fixed and good. 


'T was joy to touch her hand. 


And calmly still and manfully 


And with unwearying, patient love. 


Her prayers he long withstood ; 


Beside her couch to stand. 


Until at length she gave consent, 


To wait on her, and every wish 


Less willing than subdued. 


Unspoke to understand. 


" 'T was on a shining morn in June, 


" At length, oh joy beyond all joys! 


He rose up to depart ; 


When we believed him dead. 


I dared not to my mother show 


One calm and sunny aiiernoon. 


The sadness of my heart ; 


As she lay on her bed 


We said farewell, and yet farewell, 


In quiet sleep, methought below 


As if we could not part. 


I heard my brother's tread. 


" There seemed a gloom within the house, 


" I rose, and on the chamber stair, 


Although the bright sun shone ; 


I met himself — no other — 


There was a want within our hearts — 


More beautiful than ere before. 


For he, the dearest one. 


My tall and manly brother! 


Had said farewell that morn of June, 


I should have swooned, but for the thought 


And from our sight was gone. 


Of my poor sleeping mother.- 


" At length most doleful tidings came. 


"I cannot tell you how we met : — 


Sad tidings of dismay ; 


I could not speak for weeping ; 


The plague was in the distant town. 


Nor had I words enough for joy, — 


And hundreds died each day; 


My heart within seemed leaping, 


We thought, in truth, poor Marc would die. 


I should have screamed, but for the thought 


'Mid strangers far av\ay. 


Of her who there lay sleeping! 


" Weeks passed, and months, and not a word 


" That Marc returned in joy to us, 


Came from him to dispel 


My mother dreamed e'en then. 


The almost certainty of death 


And that prepared her for the bliss 


Which o'er our spirits fell ; 


Of meeting him again; — 


My mother drooped from fear, which grew 


To tell how great that bliss, would need 


Each day more terrible. 


The tongue of wisest men ! 



175 



166 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



"His lightest tone, his very step, 

More power had they to win 
My drooping mother back to life, 

Than every medicine ; 
She rose again, lii\e one revived 

From death where he had been ! 

" The story that my brother told 

Was long, and full of joy; 
Scarce to the city had he come, 

A poor and friendless boy. 
Than he chanced to meet a merchant good. 

From whom he asked employ. 

" The merchant was a childless man ; 

And in my brother's face. 
Something he saw that moved his heart 

To such unusual grace ; 
' My son.' said he, ' is dead, wilt thou 

Supply to me his place?' 

" Even then, bound to the golden East, 

His ship before him lay; 
And this new bond of love was formed 

There, standing on the quay ; 
My brother went on board with him, 

And sailed that very day ! 

"The letter that he wrote to us, 

It never reached our hand ; 
And while we drooped with anxious love, 

He gained the Indian strand. 
And saw a thousand wondrous things. 

In that old, famous land. 

" And many rich and curious things, 

Bright bird and pearly shell, 
He brought as if to realize 

The tales he had to tell; 
My mother smiled, and wept, and smiled, 

And listened, and grew well. 

" The merchant loved him more and more, 

And did a father's part ; 
And blessed my brother for the love 

That healed his wounded heart ; 
He was a friend that heaven had sent 

Kind mercy to impart. 

"So do not droop, my gentle friend. 
Though grief may burden sore ; 

Look up to God, for he ha;h love 
And comfort in great store, 

And ofttimes movelh human hearts 
To bless us o'er and o'er." 



A SWINGING SONG. 

Merry it is on a summer's day, 
All through the meadows to wend away; 
To watch the brooks glide fast or slow. 
And the little fish twinkle down below ; 
To hear the lark in the blue sky sing. 
Oh, sure enough, 'tis a merry thing — 
But 't is merrier far to swing — to swing ! 



Merry it is on a winter's night. 

To listen to tales of elf and sprite. 

Of caves and castle so dim and old, — 

The dismallest tales that ever were told ; — 

And then to laugh, and then to sing. 

You may take my word is a merry thing, — 

But 't is merrier far to swing — to swing ! 

Down with the hoop upon the green; 
Down with the ringing tambourine; — 
Little heed we for this or for that ; 
Off with the bonnet, off with the hat ! 
Away we go like birds on the wing ! 
Higher yet ! higher yet ! " Now for the King !" 
This is the way we swing — we swing ! 

Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is so light, — 

Mount up behind him — there, thai is right! 

Down bends the branch now ; — swing him away ; 

Higher yet — higher yet — higher I say ! 

Oh, what a joy it is ! Now let us sing 

" A pear for the Queen — an apple for the King!" 

And shake the old tree as we swing — we swing ! 



ELLEN MORE. 

" Sweet Ellen More," said I, " come forth 

Beneath the simny sky ; 
Why stand you musing all alone. 

With such an anxious eye? 
What is it, child, that aileth you ?" 

And thus she made reply : — 

"The fields are green, the skies are bright, 

The leaves are on the tree. 
And 'mong the sweet flowers of the thyme 

Far flies the honey-bee ; 
And the lark hath sung since morning prime. 

And merrily singelh he. 

" Yet not for this shall I go forth 

On the open hills to play, 
There 's not a bird that singeth now. 

Would tempt me hence to stray ; — 
I would not leave our cottage-door 

For a thousand flowers to-day !" 

" And why ?" said I, " what is there here 

Beside your cottage-door, 
To make a merry girl like you 

Thus idly stand to pore? 
There is a mystery in this thing, — 

Now tell me, Ellen More !" 

The fair girl looked into my face, 

With her dark and serious eye ; 
Silently awhile she looked, 

Then heaved a quiet sigh ; 
And, with a half reluctant will, 

Again she made reply. 

176 



TALES IN VERSE. 



167 



" Three years ago, unknown to us. 

When nuts were on the tree. 
Even in the pleasant harvest-time. 

My brother went to sea — 
Unknown to us, to sea he went, 

And a woful house were we. 

" That winter was a weary time, 

A long, dark time of woe ; 
For we knew not in what ship he sailed, 

And vainly sought to know ; 
And day and night the loud, wild winds 

Seemed evermore to blow. 

" My mother lay upon her bed. 

Her spirit sorely tossed 
With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck 

Upon some savage coast ; 
But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven 

That he might not be lost. 

" And when the pleasant spring came on, 

And fields again were green. 
He sent a letter full of news. 

Of the wonders he had seen ; 
Praying us to think him dutiful 

As he afore had been. 

" The tidings that came next were from 

A sailor old and grey. 
Who saw his ship at anchor lie 

In the harbour at Bombay ; 
But he said my brother pined for home. 

And wished he were away. 

" Again he wrote a letter long. 

Without a word of gloom ; 
And soon, and very soon he said, 

He should again come home ; 
I watched, as now, beside the door, 

And yet he did not come. 

" I watched and watched, but I knew not then 

It would be all in vain ; 
For very sick he lay the while, 

In a hospital in Spain. — 
Ah, me ! I fear my brother dear 

Will ne'er come home again ! 

" And now I watch — for we have heard 

That he is on his way. 
And the letter said, in very truth. 

He would be here to-day. 
Oh ! there 's no bird that singeth now 

Could tempt me hence away !" 

— That self-same eve I wandered down 

Unto the busy strand. 
Just as a little boat came in 

With people to the land ; 
And 'mongst them was a sailor-boy, 

Who leaped upon the sand. 

I knew him by his dark blue eyes, 
And by his features fair ; 
X 



And as he leapt ashore, he sang 

A simple Scottish air, — 
" There 's nae place like our ain dear hame 

To be met vvi' onywhere!" 



A DAY OF DISASTERS. 

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN PETER AND 
ZEDEKIAH. 

Peter. — Zedekiah, come here ! 
Zedeki.\h.— Weil now, what 's the matter ? 
Peter.— Look at my hat ; the more I set it right, it 

only gets the flatter. 
Zedekiah.— Why, Peter, what 's come to your hat ? 

I never saw such a thing. 
Peter.— I 've had nothing but ill-luck to-day ; I did 

this with the swing ; 
I 've been tossed into the apple-tree just as if I was 

a ball, 
And though I caught hold of a bough, I 've had a 

terrible fell ; 
I 'm sure I should have cracked my skull, had it not 

been for my hat. 
You may see what a fall it was, for the crown 's quite 

flat; 
And it never will take its shape again, do all that 

ever I may ! 
Zedekiah.— Never mind it, Peter ! Put it on your 

head, and come along, I say ! 
Peter. — Nay, I shall not. I shall sit down under 

this tree ; 
I 've had nothing but ill-luck to-day. Come, sit down 

by me, 
And I '11 tell you all, Zedekiah, for I feel quite for- 
lorn ; 
Oh dear ! oh dear I I 'm lamed now !— I 've sate dowa 

upon a thorn ! 
Zedekiah.— Goodness' sake ! Peter be still— what a 

terrible bellow — 
One would think you 'd sate on a hornet's nest ; sit 

down, my good fellow. 
Peter. — I '11 be sure there are no more thorns here, 

before I sit down ; 
Pretty well of one thorn at a time, Master Zedekiah 

Brown ! 
There, now, I think this seat is safe and easy— so now 

you must know 
I was fast asleep at breakfast-time ; and you '11 al- 
ways find it so. 
That if you begin a day ill, it will be ill all the day. 
Well, when I woke, the breakfast-things were clat- 
tering all away ; 
And I know they had eggs and fowl, and all sort of 

good things ; 
But then none may partake who are in bed when the 

morning bell rings ; 
So, sadly vexed as I was, I rolled myself round ia 

bed, 
And, "as breakfast is over, I '11 not hurry myself," I 

said, 

177 



168 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



So I just got into a nice little doze, when in came 

my mother ; 
And " for shame, Peter," she said, " to be a-bed now ! 

well, you can't go with your brother!" 
Then out of the door she went, without another word ; 
And just then a sound of wheels, and of pawing 

horses' hoofs I heard ; 
So I jumped up to the window to see what it was, 

and I declare 
There was a grand party of fine folks setting off 

somewhere : 
There was my brother, mounted on the pony so sleek 

and brown ; 
And Bell in her white frock, and my mother in her 

satin gown ; 
And my father in his best, and two gentlemen beside ; 
And I had never heard a word about it, either of drive 

or ride! 
I really think it was very queer of them to set off in 

that way — 
If I 'd only known over-night, I 'd have been up by 

break of day ! 
As you may think, I was sadly vexed, but 1 did not 

choose to show it. 
So I whistled as I came down stairs, that the servants 

might not know it; 
Then I went into the yard, and called the dog by his 

name, 
For I thought if they were gone, he and I might have 

a good game ; 
But I called and called, and there was no dog either 

in this place or th' other ; 
And Thomas said, " Master Peter, Neptane's gone 

with your brother." 
Well, as there was no dog, I went to look for the fox. 
And sure enough the chain was broke, and there 

was no creature in the box ; 
But where the fellow was gone nobody could say. 
He had broken loose himself, I suppose, and so had 

slipped away ; 
I would give anything I have but to find the fox 

again — 
And was it not provoking, Zedekiah, to lose him just 

then? 
Zedekiah. — Provoking enough! Well, Peter, and 

what happened next ? 
Peter. — Why, when I think of it now, it makes me 

quite vexed ; 
I went into the garden, just to look about 
To see, if the green peas were ready, or the scarlet- 
lychnis come out ; 
And there, what should I clap my eyes on but the 

old sow. 
And seven little pigs, making a pretty row ! 
And of all places in the world, as if for very spite. 
They had gone info my garden, and spoiled and 

ruined it quite ! 
The old sow, she had grubbed up my rosemary and 

old-man by the root. 
And my phlox and my sunflowers, and my hoUyhocla, 

that were as black as soot ; 
And every flower that I set store on was ruined for 
ever ; 



I never was so mortified in all my life — never! 

Zedekiah. — You sent them off, I should think, with 
a famous swither! 

Peter. — Grunting and tumbling one over the other, 
I cared not whither. 

Well, as I was just then standing, grieving over the 
ruin, 

I heard Thomas call, " Master Peter, come and see 
what the rats have been doing — 

They 've eaten all the guinea-pigs' heads off!" 

Zedekiah. — Oh, Peter, was it true ? 

Peter. — Away I ran, not knowing what in the world 
to do ! — 

And there — I declare it makes me quite shudder to 
the bone — 

Lay all ray pretty little guinea-pigs as dead as a stone ! 

" It 's no manner of use," says Thomas, " setting traps ; 
for you see 

They no more care for a trap, than I do for a pea; 

I '11 lay my life on 't, there are twenty rats now down 
in that hole, 

And we can no more reach 'em, than an under- 
ground mole !" 

I declare, Zedekiah, I never passed such a day be- 
fore — not I ; 

It makes me quite low-spirited, till I 'm ready to cry. 

All those pretty guinea-pigs ! and I 've nothing left 
at all. 

Only the hav»k, and I 've just set his cage on the wall. 

Zedekiah. — Hush! hush, now! for Thomas is saying 
something there, 

Peter. — What d' ye say, Thomas ? 

Thomas. — The hawk's soaring in the air! The 
cage-door was open, and he 's flown clean away! 

Peter There now, Zedekiah, is it not an unfortu- 
nate day ? 

I 've lost all my favourites — I 've nothing left at all, 

And my garden is spoiled, and I 've had such a 
dreadful fall ! 

I wish I had been up this morning as early as the sun, 

And then I should have gone to Canonley, nor have 
had all this mischief done! 

I 'msure it 's quite enough to make me cry for a year — 

Let 's go into the house, Zedekiah ; what 's the use 
of sitting here ? 



THE YOUNG MOURNER. 

Leaving her sports, in pensive tone, 
'T was thus a fair young mourner said, 

" How sad we are now we 're alone, — 
I wish my mother were not dead ! 

"I can remember she was fair; 

And how she kindly looked and smiled. 
When she would fondly stroke my hair, 

And call me her beloved child. 

" Before my mother went away. 
You never sighed as now you do ; 

You used to join us at our play. 
And be our merriest playmate too. 

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TALES IN VERSE. 



169 



" Father, I can remember when 
I first observed her sunken eye, 

And her pale, hollow cheek ; and then 
1 told my brother she would die ! 

" And the next morn they did not speak, 

But led us to her silent bed ; 
They bade v.s kiss her icy check. 

And told us she indeed was dead ! 

" Oh, then I thought how she was kind, 
My own beloved and gentle mother! 

And calling all I knew to mind, 
I thought there ne'er was such another I 

" Poor little Charles, and I ! that day 
We sate within our silent room ; 

But we could neither read nor play, — 
The very walls seemed full of gloom. 

" I wish my mother had not died. 

We never have been glad since then ; 

They say, and is it true," she cried, 
" That she can never come again ?" 

The father checked his tears, and thus 
He spake, " My child, they do not err, 

Who say she cannot come to us ; 
But you and I may go to her. 

" Remember your dear mother still. 
And the pure precepts she has given ; 

Like her, be humble, free from ill, 
And you shall see her face in heaven !" 



THE BEAR AND THE BAKERS. 

A TRUE STORY. 

In the old town in which I live, 
The event occurred of which I mean to speak ; 
To know what town that is, ye need not seek ; 
No further information shall I give. 
In this town is an annual fair. 
Such as, I will be bound to say. 
May not be met with everywhere. 
Then all the people look extremely gay, 
And all the children have a holiday : 
Then there are cows, and sheep, and pigs to sell. 
And more than I can tell ; 
And booths are ranged in rows, 
Full of all sorls of pretty things. 
Glass necklaces, and copper rings. 
And pins, and gloves, and bracelets, combs, and boxes; 
And then there are such quantities of shows. 
All crammed with lions, elephants, and Ibxes ! 
And for the little people, dolls and balls, 
Horses and coaches, whips and penny trumpets : 
And many different sorts of stalls. 
Filled with sweet cakes and ginger-bread and crum- 
pets ; 
And then there is the learned pig. 
And the great " ?,Iister Bigg," 
The famous English Fatagonian; 



And the grey fwny that can dance so well ; 
And then there is the wee, wee man, 
That in seven languages can read and spell, 
Though scarcely bigger than a lady's fan ; 
And crowds of people staring in amaze, 
And thronging twenty different ways, 
And pushing you against the wall. 
Till you can scarcely keep your legs at all. 

Well, unto this same fair, 

There came, the night before, 

A famous dancing bear. 

And several monkeys on his back he bore ; 

But with the monkeys we have nought to do — 

The bear alone concerns our story. 

Now as night's curtain had begun to drop. 

And they had travelled far, 

The master of the bear resolved to stop, 

Just where the town lay stretching out before ye, 

Until the morning, at the Golden Star; 

So, without more ado, 

The bear was led 

Into a little shed. 

And housed, as they thought, for the night. 

Bruin, however, did not like his quarters. 

And, without asking if the thing were right, 

Or sifting an important business through, 

As reasonable people do. 

Walked out ; nor did mine hostess, nor her daughters. 

Nor guest of any sort, behold him go. 

By this time it was dark enough ; 
And Bruin walked into a common rough, 
That lay behind the Golden Star ; 
And there he wandered up and down — 
When thus it came to pass, 
A baker from the town 
Was carrying fagots for the morning ; 
And he had not gone far 
Before he saw what he supposed an ass, 
In the dusk night-fall, shaggy, wild, and black; 
So, without any warning. 
He threw the fagots on his back. 
Thinking it was a lucky chance 
To meet with such a beast! 
Bruin, thus taken by surprise, 
Began to prance ' 

And growl, and stare with fiery eyes. 
The man, who never in the least 
Expected such a spirited retort. 
Slopped for a moment short ; 
Then sprang along o'er smooth and rough. 
Expecting that a thing 
So wild and gruff 

Upon his back would make a sudden spring, 
And eat him at a mouthful, sure enough I 
Poor Bruin had no such intent, 
But on he went, 
Down to a neighbouring lane, 
Picking his way as best he could. — 
But in my second part, I will explain 
The nature of the place whereon he stood. 
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170 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



PART ir. 

'TwAS on the confines of that common hoary, 

Which, like a wall, stood up against the lane — 

Because the common was much higher ground — 

So that the houses standing there, 

Seemed at the back only one single story. 

Though, in the front, they all of them were twain. 

I'm very much afraid this will be found 

An explanation rather dark and lame ; 

But as you read you '11 understand it better. 

If you attend, at least, unto the letter. 

But, let us now unto the bear : — 

'T was to the back of such a house he came, 

Built 'gainst this higher ground. 

So that he found. 

Without being in the least to blame, 

His nose against a window-grate 

Which opened straight 

Into a well-stored larder. 

In this small house there dwelt another baker, 

A famous man for penny pies : 

Of cakes and ginger-bread, a noted maker, 

And sausages likewise. 

No wonder let it be, therefore. 

That there was such a store 

Of legs of mutton, dainty pork. 

And pies just ready for the knife and fork. 

These things just staiiding under bruin's nose, 

You may suppose 

Would make him long to have a little taste ; 

So, through the grate, 

Headlong he plunged — a lumbering weight — 

And many jingling tins displaced. 

Poor bruin never thought, not he. 

The window was just at the ceiling, 

And he should fall so far and heavily ; 

And after all, be taken up for stealing ! 

The baker being awakened by this din, 
Blunder on blunder, tin on tin, 
Thought twenty thieves were breaking in ! 
He was a tall and sturdy fellow, 
And to his only son. 
Most stoutly he began to bellow — 
" Jack, get the double-barrelled gun, 
A host of thieves is in the pantry — 
Twenty they are, or more ; 
Do you go out and keep strict sentry. 
And shoot the first who ventures out. 
The while I guard the door!" 
As soon as said, the thing was done,— 
Jack took the double-barrelled gun, 
And stood before the broken grate : 
" Ah, thieves !" said he, with lusty shout, 
" If you come out, 

I '11 scatter twenty bullets round about !" 
The bear, so frightened at this sad disaster, 
And, thinking Jack must be his master. 
Lay quite stock still : 
Meanwhile, the baker stood before, 
And double-locked the pantry-door. 
"There, there!" said he, "I've got them fast, 
I 've caught the rogues at last !" 



All this poor bruin heard. 

And much he marvelled at his case ; 

Thus prisoned in that trap-like place ; 

Yet so the baker scolded if he stirred ; 

And so much did he fear his master's stick, 

Heavy and thick. 

He dared not reconnoitre, nor look out. 

Lest something worse should come about ; 

Therefore, he lay quite still. 

Though it was very much against his will. 

Jack was outside, a watchful sentinel. 

He noted all that happened in the night : 

He heard the asses braying on the common ; 

He saw the earliest streak of morning light ; 

He heard the watchmen in the town, 

With their dull voices passing up and down. 

And the Exchange clock, with its heavy bell, 

The hours with quarters tell : 

He saw the earliest passing countrywoman ; 

And now a man, and now a boy he saw ; 

And now the morning grew so keen and raw, 

He wished his task was o'er; 

And now he heard the clocks strike four ; 

And now, — O welcome sight. 

He, in the Golden Star, beheld a light ! 

While Jack, to notice all these things was able, 

His father made 

A very decent sort of barricade, 

Of chair and table ; 

So that the foe, if he had been inclined 

To issue forth, might find 

The thing impracticable. 

This done, soon as the clock struck four. 

The baker left his door ; 

But all so silently. 

That the trapped enemy 

Might still suppose him watching at his post. 

As powerful as a host. 

Down to the Golden Star in haste he ran. 

And there he found them bustling all about. 

Fetching and carrying, mistress, maid, and man, 

Though 't was so early, going in and out. 

To them he told the adventures of the night, 

And all were in a great affright ; 

And all indignant at the thieves' audacity : 

" Is it not wonderful ?" said they, 

" But in the present day. 

All men, even thieves, have an improved capacity!" 

This said, with sudden haste 

They called up every guest, 

Carter, and cattle-driver, groom and jockey, 

And the bear's master, wild and black ; 

Until the baker thought he was moat lucky 

To muster such a party at his back. 

Unto the house they came, and pulled down, first, 

The formidable barricade ; 

And then they grew afraid. 

Lest out the dreadful enemy should burst 

At length each heart grew bolder. 

And o'er his neighbour's shoulder 

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TALES IN VERSE. 



171 



Each held a lighted candle ; and, en masse, 

They rushed into the place where bruin was ! 

There, skulking in his shaggy coat, they saw 

A frightful something with a paw ! 

" Up, up with you at once I" 

Shouted poor bruin's master in his ears ; 

And he, who was no dunce. 

And had so many fears, 

And knew that voice so well. 

Sprang in a moment to his hinder legs, 

Just like a little dog that begs. 

And danced a hornpipe to a miracle ! 

Half angry was the baker, seeing thus, 

That after all his fuss. 

The thieves were nothing but a dancing-bear! 

And yet he took it in good part. 

And tried to laugh with all his heart. 

And said it was a joke most capital ! 

And through all the fair 

'T was told at every booth and every stall, 

What fancy bruin had for dainty store ; 

And many people gave him ginger-bread ; 

And he with buns and penny-pies was fed, 

iSo that he never fared so well before .' 



THE SOLDIER'S STORY. 

"Heaven bless the boys !" the old man said, 
" I hear their distant drumming, — 

Young Arthur Bruce is at their head. 
And down the street they 're coming. 

" And a very noble standard too 

He carries in the van ; 
By the faith of an old soldier, he 

Is born to make a man !" 

A glow of pride passed o'er his cheek, 

A tear came to his eye ; 
" Hurra, hurra ! my gallant men !" 

Cried he, as they came nigh. 

" It seems to me but yesterday 

Since I was one like ye. 
And now my years are seventy-tw^O,— 

Come here, and talk with me !" 

They made a halt, those merry boys. 

Before the aged man ; 
And " tell us now some story wild," 

Young Arthur Bruce began ; 

" Of battle and of victory 

Tell us some stirring thing !" 
The old man raised his arm aloft. 

And cried, " God save the king ! 

" A soldier's is a life of fame, 

A life that hath its meed — 
They write his wars in printed books. 

That every man may read. 
16 



" And if you 'd hear a story wild, 

Of war and battle done, 
I am the man to tell such tales, 

And you shall now have one. 

" In every quarter of the globe 

I 've fought — by sea, by land ; 
And scarce for five and fifty years 

Was the musket from my hand. 

" But the bloodiest wars, and fiercest too. 
That were waged on any shore. 

Were those in which my strength was spent, 
In the country of Mysore. 

" And oh ! what a fearful, deadly clime 

Is that of the Indian land. 
Where the burning sun shines fiercely down 

On the hot and fiery sand ! 

" The life of man seems little worth, 

And his arm hath little power 
His very soul within him dies, 

As dies a broken flower. 

" Yet spite of this, was India made 

As for a kingly throne ; 
There gold is plentiful as dust, 

As sand the diamond stone ; 

" And like a temple is each house, 

Silk-curtained from the sun ; 
And every man has twenty slaves, 

Who at his bidding run. 

" He rides on the lordly elephant. 

In solemn pomp ; — and there 
They hunt the gold-striped tiger, 

As here they hunt the hare. 

" Yet it is a dreadful clime ! and we 

Up in the country far 
Were sent, — we were two thousand men, 

In a disastrous war. 

"The soldiers died in the companies 

As if the plague had been ; 
And soon in every twenty men, 

The dead were seventeen. 

" We went to storm a fort of mud — 
And yet the place was strong — 

Three thousand men were guarding it, 
And they had kept it long. 

" We were in all three hundred souls, 

Feeble and worn and wan ; 
Like walking spectres of the tomb. 

Was every living man. 

"Yet Arthur Bruce, now standing there. 

With the ensign of his band, 
Reminds me of a gallant youth. 

Who fought at my right hand. 

" Scarce five and twenty years of age, 

And feeble as the rest. 
Yet with the bearing of a king, 

That noble soul expressed. 

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172 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" But a silent grief was in his eye, 

And oft his noble frame 
Shook like a quivering aspen leaf, 

And his colour went and came. 

" He marched by my side for seven days, 

Most patient of our band ; 
And night and day he ever kept 

Our standard in his hand. 

" They fought with us like tigers. 

Before that fort of mud ; 
And all around the burning sands 

Were as a marsh with blood. 

" We watched that young man, — he to us 

Was as a kindling hope; 
We saw him pressing on and on. 

Bearing the standard up. 

" At length it for a moment veered — 

A ball had struck his hand, 
But he seized the banner with his lefl. 

Without a moment's stand. 

"He mounted upward to the wall ; 

He waved the standard high, — 
But then another smote him ! — 

And the captain standing by 

" Said, ' Of this gallant youth take care, 
• He hath won for us the day !' 
I and my comrades took him up. 
And bore him thence away. 

" There was no tree about the place. 

So 'neath the fortress shade 
We carried him, and carefully 

Upon the red sand laid. 

" I took the feather from my cap, 

To fan his burning cheek ; 
I gave him water, drop by drop. 

And prayed that he would speak. 

" At length he said, ' mine hour is come ! 

My soldier-name is bright ; 
But a pang there is within my soul. 

That hath wrung me day and night : 

" ' I left my mother's home without 
Her blessing ; — she doth mourn, 

Doth weep for me with bitter tears, — 
I never can return ! 

"'This bowed my eagle-spirit down, 
This robbed mine eye of rest ; 

I left her widowed and alone : — 
Oh that I had been blessed !' 

"No more he said, — he closed his eyes. 

And yet he died not then ; 
He lived till the morrow morning came. 

But he never spoke again." 

This tale the veteran soldier told. 

Upon a summer's day; — 
The boys came merrily down the street, 

But they all went sad away. 



MARIEN LEE. 

Not a care hath Marien Lee, 
Dwelling by the sounding sea ! 
Her young life 's a flowery way : — 
Without toil from day to day, 
Without bndings for the morrow, — 
Marien was not made for sorrow ! 

Like the summer- billows wild 
Leaps the happy-hearted child ; 
Sees her father's fishing boat. 
O'er the waters gaily float ; 
Hears her brother's fishing-song 
On the light gale borne along ; 
Half a league she hears the lay. 
Ere they turn into the bay. 
And with glee, o'er cliff and main. 
Sings an answer back again, 
Which by man and boy is heard. 
Like the carol of a bird. 
Look ! she sitteth laughing there. 
Wreathing sea-weed in her hair. 
Saw ye e'er a thing so fair ? 

Marien, some are rich in gold, 
Heaped-up treasure-stores untold ; 
Some in thought sublime, refined, 
And the glorious wealth of mind : 
Thou, sweet child, life's rose unblown. 
Hast a treasure of thine own — 
Youth's most unalloyed delights ; 
Happy days, and tranquil nights; 
Hast a brain with thought unvexed ; 
A heart untroubled, unperplexed ! 
Go, thou sweet one, all day long, 
Like a glad bird, pour thy song ; 
And let thy young, graceful head. 
Be with sea-flowers garlanded ; 
For all outward signs of glee. 
Well befit thee, Marien Lee ! 



THE CHILD'S LAMENT. 

I LIKE it not — this noisy street 

I never liked, nor can I now — • 
I love to feel the pleasant breeze 
On the free hills, and see the trees. 

With birds upon the bough ! 

Oh, I remember long ago, — 

So long ago, 'tis like a dream — 
My home was on a green-hill side, 
By flowery meadows, still and wide, 

'Mong trees, and by a stream. 

Three happy brothers I had then, 
My merry playmates every day — 

I 've looked and looked through street and square, 

But never chanced I, anywhere, 
To see such boys as they. 

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TALES IN VERSE. 



173 



We all had gardens of our own — 
Four little gardens in a row, — 

And there we set our twining peas ; 

And rows of cress ; and real trees. 
And real flowers to grow. 

My father I remember too, 
And even now his face can see ; 

And the grey horse he used to ride, 

And the old dog that at his side 
Went barking joyfully ! 

He used to fly my brothers' kites, 
And'build them up a man of snow, 

And sail their boats, and with them race ; 

And carry me from place to place, 
Just as I liked to go. 

I'm sure he was a pleasant man. 

And people must have loved him well ! - 
O, I remember that sad day 
When they bore him in a hearse away, 
And tolled his funeral bell! 

Thy mother comes each night to kiss 
Thee, in thy little quiet bed — 

So came my mother years ago ; 

And I loved her — oh ! I loved her so, 
'T was joy to hear her tread ! 

It must be many, many years 

Since then, and yet I can recall 
Her very tone — her look — her dress, 
Her pleasant smile and gentleness, 
That had kind words for all. 

She told us tales, she sang us songs. 
And in our pastimes took delight. 

And joined us in our summer glee. 

And sat with us beneath the tree ; 

Nor wearied of our company. 
Whole days, from morn till night. 

Alas ! I know that she is dead. 
And in the cold, cold grave is hid ; 

I saw her in her coffin lie. 

With the grim mourners standing by ; 

And silent people solemnly 
Closed down the coffin lid. 

My brothers were not there — ah me ! 

I know not where they went ; some said 
With a rich man beyond the sea 
That they were dwelling pleasantly — 

And some that they were dead. 

I cannot think that it is so, 

I never saw them pale and thin. 
And the last time their voice 1 heard, 
Merry were they as a summer-bird. 
Singing its bowers within. 

I wish that I could see their faces. 
Or know at least that they were near; 

Ah! gladly would I cross the sea. 

So that with them I might but be, 

For now my days pass wearily. 
And all are strangers here. 



THE SAILOR'S WIFE. 

A TALE OF THE SEA. 

Heaven keep the wives of seamen, 
And bless their children small. 

For they have power to cheer us. 
If sorrow should befall! 

I '11 tell you how the thoughts of them 
Once saved a ship in need, 

As if they 'd been the seraphim 
That had of us good heed. 

A stout ship was the Halcyon, 

As ever sailed the sea ; 
The crew that manned the Halcyon, 

Were thirty hands and three. 

I was the good ship's purser. 

The ocean was my joy — 
The waves had been my playmates 

When I was but a boy. 

The master of the Halcyon 
Was good as he was bold ; 

Let the name of William Morrison 
Throughout the world be told ! 

We heaved the Halcyon's anchor 

On the twenty-first of May, 
And from our wives and children 

With sorrow went away. 

My wife was bonny Betsy, 
Both trim and true was she ; 

We called the good ship after her. 
When next we went to sea : 

And how this glory chanced to her 
I '11 tell ye presently. 

With her I left two children. 

More dear than mines of gold — 

Another dark-haired Betsy, 
And a boy scarce two years old. 

Said I, " My bonny Betsy, 

These idle tears restrain; 
The happy day will soon come round. 

When we shall meet again ! 

" So, fare-ye-well, my jewels !" 

Said I, in feigned glee. 
For I feared the pain of pavting. 

Would make a child of me. 

We went on board the Halcyon, 

On the twenty-first of May, 
And with a fresh and prosperous gale. 

From England bore away. 

We were bound unto the islands 

In the South Pacific sea; 
And many a day, and many a week. 

We sailed on prosperously. 

But then a dreadful malady 

Broke out among the crew ; 
The ocean-waves rolled heavily. 

And the hot wind scarcely blew ! 
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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



'T was on a Monday morning, 
When first the plague appeared, 

About the latter days of June, 
When the Equinox we neared. 

The brave men gazed in sorrow, 
The weak men in despair — 

As the reaper in the harvest-field. 
Death drove his sickle there ! 

They died within the hammock, 
They dropped from off the shroud ; 

And then they 'gan to murmur, 
And misery spoke aloud. 

When at the helm the helmsnian died, 
All care of life seemed gone ; 

We sate in stupid anguish. 
And let the ship drive on. 

We looked upon each other 

In terror and dismay ; 
We feared each other's company. 

And longed to get away. 

But death was in the vessel. 
And death was on the sea ; — 

Said they, " we 'H launch the long-boat. 
And so part company." 

In all we were but thirteen men ; 

And with that sluggish wind, 
Six of our number put to sea. 

And seven remained behind. 

In vain the captain urged them 

By the vessel to remain; 
But woe had made them reckless. 

And they answered not again. 

We saw throughout that weary day, 
A westward course they bore ; 

But we lost them on the morrow. 
And never saw them more. 

Our captain sate among us. 

As he ibr long had done, 
And cheered with comfortable words. 

When comfort else was none. 

Said he, " My brave companions, 

Still let us nobly strive. 
And for our wives and children, 

Keep fainting hope alive! 

" There was one, the bonny Betsy, 
With a child in either hand — 

I saw her tears at parting. 
As she stood on the strand. 

" We all have wives in England — 
Come, yield not to dismay ; 

Let 's give a cheer for Betsy, 
And do the best we may! 

" Ye shall live to smile at sorrow ! — 
Brave hearts, let 's down with pain ! 

Please God, we '11 bring the Halcyon 
To England once again! 



So spoke good William Morrison, 

His tears but half repressed ; 
And all rose up as if renewed. 

And vowed to do our best. 

It seemed the plague had left us, 
And we were strong men all. 

When we thought on those who loved us. 
Our wives and children small. 

And soon upsprung a cooling gale, 

A cool gale and a strong; 
And from those deadly latitudes 

The good ship bore along. 

We were but seven mariners. 

And yet we were enow ; 
And we cheered for bonny Betsy, 

With every rope we drew. 

They looked on me with kindness. 

As on we gaily moved; 
For each man in my Betsy 

Beheld the wife he loved. 

Heaven bless the wives of seamen. 

And be their children's stay. 
For they have power to cheer us, 

When we are far away ! 

And so we made our voyage 

Across the southern main. 
And brought that gallant vessel 

To England safe again. 

They named her there the " Betsy," 

Before the second trip ; 
And I '11 abide beside her. 

As long as she's a ship! 

Now let us cheer for joy in store. 

For sorrow that is gone, 
And for my bonny Betsy, 

And Captain Morrison! 



THE MORNING DRIVE. 

A PLAY FOR VERY LITTLE CHILDREN. 

Oh, dear mamma! I 'm glad you 've come! 

Pray look, for we pretend, 
I 'm riding in a pony chaise 

To see an absent friend. 

Now, is it not a famous scheme. 

As like as chaise can be ? 
And such a noble horse as this 

We very seldom see. 

For 'tis a true Arabian, 

As white as driven snow ; 
'T was bounding o'er the desert sands 

Not many months ago ! 

184 



TALES IN VERSE. 



175 



And we pretend we speed along, 

Like arrows in the wind ; 
And Charley is my servant lad, 

Who gallops just behind. 

And so, mamma, we 're driving out — 

And 'tis a morn in May ; 
Apd we can scent the hawthorn flowers, 

As we go by the way. 

And we can see the bird-cherry 

Upon the green hills wide. 
And covvslip.s pale and orchises, 

And many flowers beside. 

And little lambs are all at play ; 

And birds are singing clear ; 
Now is it not a charming thmg, 

To be thus driving here ? 

And oh, mamma ! we 've seen such things ! 

Charley would have it so — 
Although a little servant lad 

Should not dictate, you know. 

And first we met a drove of pigs. 

Great Irish pigs and strong ; 
And oh ! I so much trouble had, 

To get the horse along ! 

And then a great, wild Highland herd 

Filled all the narrow road ; 
They looked like mountain bufliiloes, 

And wildly stared and lowed ; 

And 'neath their shaggy brows, on us 

Such dismal looks they cast ! 
Mamma, 'twas really wonderful 

How ever we got past! 

And coaches we have met, and carts. 

And beggars lame and blind ; 
And all to please this serving-boy. 

Who gallops just behind. 

Come up, my little horse, come up, 

I 'm sure you can't be tired ; 
You never must be weary, sir, 

When you 're so much admired ! 

There, now we 're at the turnpike gate, 
And now we 're driven through ; 

Over the hill, my little horse, 
And then the town 's in view. 

There, now we 're in the town itself; 

" Smith," " Hopkins," " Cook and Jones ;" 
One scarce can read these great gilt names, 

For jumbling o'er the stones ! 

And now we pass " The Old Green Man," 
And now we pass " The Sun ;" 

And next across the market-place. 
And then the journey 's done. 

Ah ! now I see the very house 
And there 's the drawing-room ; 

Charley, alight, and give my card. 
And ask if they 're at home. 
16* Y 



Oh yes ! I see them every one, ^ 
There 's Anne and Jane and Kate ; 

IVo, Charley, now you need not ring. 
For they are at the gate. 

And now, mamma, that we are here, 

Will you pretend to be. 
The ladies all so kind and good. 

Whom we are come to see ? 



THE FOUND TREASURE. 

On, Harry, come hither, and lay down your book, 
And see what a treasure I've found ! only look ! 
'T is as handsome a kitten as ever you saw. 
Equipped like a cat, with tail, whisker, and claw. 
See, here it is ready for pastime and Ireak, 
Though it looks at this moment so sober and meek : 
Yes, Harry, examine it over and over, 
'T is really the kitten no one could discover ! 
Oh Kit, we have sought you above and below ; 
We have gone where a mouser never could go ; 
We have hunted in garrets with diligent care. 
In chambers and closets — but you were not there ; 
We have been in dark corners with lanterns to see, 
We 've peeped in the hayloft if there you might be ; 
And the parlour and kitchen we 've searched through 

and through. 
And listened in vain for your musical mew! 

And who would have thought that a sensible puss, 
As your mother is deemed, would have harassed us 

thus ! 
Then to bury you here, in this odd, little den ! 
But you never, my Kit, shall be buried again ; 
You shall go to the parlour, and sit on the hearth. 
And there we will laugh at your frolicsome mirth ; 
You shall caper about on the warm kitchen floor. 
And in the hot sunshine shall bask at the door. 

You shall have a round cork at the end of a string 
Tied up to the table, you grey, little thing ! 
You shall twirl round and round, like a brisk wind- 
mill sail. 
You poor little simpleton, after your tail ; 
And jump in affright from a shade on the wall ; 
And spring, like a tiger, on nothing at all — 
While my father will lay his old book on his knee, 
And my mother look up from her knitting to see. 

I am glad we have found you before you were wise, 
And had learned all a kitten's arch ways to despise ; 
Before you grew sober, demure, and all that. 
And adhered to grave rules, like a well-behaved 

cat! 
Come Kitty, we '11 take j'ou, this same aflemoon. 
And show you about, like a man from the moon. 
There, down in your basket, we '11 cover you so. 
And ask but a pin for a peep at the show ! 
185 



178 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THOUGHTS OF HEAVEN. 

Thoughts of Heaven ! they come when low 
The summer eve's breeze doth iaintly blow ; 
When the mighty sea sliines clear, unstirred 
By the wavering tide or the dipping bird. 
They come in the rush of the surging storm, 
When the waves rear up their giant form. 
When the breakers dash o'er dark rocks, white, 
And the terrible lightnings rend the night; 
When the mighty ship hath vainly striven ; 
With the seaman's cry, come thoughts of Heaven ! 

They come where man doth not intrude ; 

In the trackless forest's solitude ; 

In the stillness of the grey rock's height. 

Whence the lonely eagle takes his flight ; 

On peaks where lie the unwasting snows ; 

In the sun-bright islands' rich repose ; 

In the heathery glen ; by the dark, clear lake. 

Where the wild swan broods in the reedy brake ; 

Where nature reigns in her deepest rest. 

Pure thoughts of heaven come unreprest. 

They come as we gaze on the midnight sky. 
When the star-gemmed vault is dark and high. 
And the soul on the wings of thought sublime, 
Soars from the world and the bounds of time. 
Till the mental eye becomes unsealed, 
And the mystery of being in light revealed ! 
They rise in the old cathedral dim, 
When slowly bursts forth the holy hymn. 
And the organ's tones swell full and high. 
Till the roof peals back the melody. 

Thoughts of Heaven ! from his joy beguiled. 
They come to the bright-eyed, playful child ; 
To the man of age in his dull decay. 
Bringing hopes that his youth took not away; 
To the woe-smit soul, in its dark distress. 
As flowers spring up in the wilderness ; — 
Like the light of day in its blessed fall, 
Such holy thoughts are given to all I 



A DAY OF HARD WORK. 

A CONVERSATION BETWEEN HARRY AND KITTY. 

Kitty. — Well, now you 've been running about so, 

pray can't you sit still ? 
I want to have some talk with you, and I certainly 

will : 
I 've got all this unpicking to do, for while I talk I 

must work ; 
You boys can run about idling — I sit stitching like a 

Turk. 
Come, now tell me, can't you, something about the 

farm-yard ? 
How many eggs has the turkey laid — and is that 

muddy place dry and hard ? 



Come, tell me in a minute, I haven't patience to wait ; 
And till you begin, sir, there 's a thimble-pie for you 

on the top of your pate. 
Harry. — Oh Kitty! you 've knocked me so, I'll tell 

my mother, that I will ! 
If you do so, miss, nobody will like you, so you 'd 

better be still. 
Kitty. — Well, then, tell me something! Why should 

I be still and nobody talking ? 
Harry. — Oh ! I 'm tired with this running about, and 

this riding, and this walking ; 
I wish there was no such thing as running or walk- 
ing at all ; 
And J wish every horse were in the fields, or else 

tied up in its stall ! 
What 's your work, Kitty ? sitting slill in the house 

at ease ; 
You 've nothing to do but sit down, and get up again, 

just as you please ; 
And yet you talk of your work, as if 'twas the hard- 
est that e'er was done. 
Why compare it with mine, child, and I 'm sure it 's 

nothing but fun ! 
Kitty. — Child! I'm no more child than you; I'm 

but younger by a year, 
I desire you speak respectfully to me, now, sir, — do 

you hear ? 
Harry. — Yes, yes, I hear ! But I really am so tired, 

as I was just now saying ; 
I wish you 'd get your work done, and let 's begin 

playing ! 
You can't believe, I 'm sure, all the work I 've done 

this day — 
I 've weeded two carrot-beds, and (he onions — and 

carried all the weeds away ; 
And I 've been down to Thomas Jackson's to tell him 

to get the horse shod ; 
And in coming back there was a great, big. rusty nail, 

upon wiiich I trod. 
And it lamed me so, I don't believe I shall walk for 

a week. 
At least as I ought to do, for ray ancle has quite a 

creak ! 
Kitty. — Oh dear, let me look at it ! Why, I 'ra sure 

it is quite shocking — 
See, there 's a hole as large as my thimble in the 

ancle of your stocking ! 
Harry. — Oh no, 't is the other foot — that I tore with 

a bramble ; 
And that reminds me. Jack Smith and I had such a 

terrible scramble ! 
We were catching the pony that T might ride down 

to the mill, 
To bid him bring the flour home, fori declare he has 

It still ; 
And we shan't have a bit of white bread in the house, 

nor a pudding, nor a pie. 
If he don't bring it home — every one says he 's shame- 
fully idle., and so do I. 
Well, but I haven't told you after all, what a deal of 

work I 've done ; 
And I 'm sure if you knew what weeding was, you 

would not call it fun ; 

186 



TALES IN VERSE. 



177 



It makes one's back ache so, stooping to weed all day, 

I shall be famously glad when it's done ! 

Kitty. — But are you quite ready for play ? 

I 've but a little bit to do — I shall have done in half 

a quarter of an hour ; 
And as you 've nothing to do, just ran and see if that 

lavender's in flower — 
There 's a good Harry, do ; I '11 do seven times as 

much for you ; 
You know I sewed, yesterday, that old clasp in your 

shoe. 
Harry. — I 'd go, if I thought you 'd have done by 

the time I come back ; 
Kitty. — To be sure I shall ! — I wish you would not 

waste so much time with your clack ! 
Harry. — Well, just let me pull up my shoe, and put 

by this peacock's feather. 
Kitty. — Nay, you may as well stay now; I 've just 

done, and we'll both go together ; 
For I want to show you something like a magpie's 

nest up in a tree. 
Only I don't think it is a magpie's nest, and I can't 

think what it can be ; 
And it is just by the lavender bush, and 't will save 

us going there twice : — 
There, now I 've done my work .' and I shall be 

ready in a trice ! 
Harry. — Well, then let us begone; we shall have 

two whole hours for play ; 
I didn't think we should have had so much time, and 

r been working all day I 



THE OLD MAN AND THE CARRION 
CROW. 

There was a man and his name was Jack, 

Crabbed and lean, and his looks were black — 

His temper was sour, his thoughts were bad ; 

His heart was hard when he was a lad. 

And now he followed a dismal trade. 

Old horses he botight and killed and flayed, 

Their flesh he sold for the dogs to eat ; 

You would not have liked this man to meet. 

He lived in a low mud-house on a moor, 

Without any garden before the door. 

There was one little hovel behind, that stood. 

Where he used to do his work of blood ; 

I never could bear to see the place, 

It was stained and darkened with many a trace ; 

A trace of what I will not tell — 

And then there was such an unchristian smell ! 

Now this old man did come and go. 
Through the wood that grew in the dell below ; 
' It was scant a mile from his own door-stone. 
Darksome and dense, and overgrown ; 
And down in the drearest nook of the wood, 
A tall and splintered fir-lree stood ; 
Half-way up, where the boughs outspread, 
A carrion crow his nest had made. 



Of sticks and reeds in the dark fir-tree. 

Where lay his mate and his nestlings three ; 

And whenever he saw the man come by, 

" Dead horse ! dead horse !" he was sure to cry, 

" Croak, croak !" if he went or came. 

The cry of the crow was just the same. 

Jack looked up as grim as could be. 

And says, " what 's my trade to the like of thee !" 

" Dead horse ! dead horse ! croak, croak ! croak, 

croak!" 
As plain as words to his ear it spoke. 
Old Jack stooped down and picked up a stone, 
A stout, thick stick, and dry cow's-bone. 
And one and the other all three did throw. 
So angry was he, at the carrion crow ; 
But none of the three reached him or his nest, 
Where his three young crows lay warm at rest; 
And " Croak, croak ! dead horse ! croak, croak !" 
In his solemn way again he spoke ; 
Old Jack was angry as he could be, 
And says he, " On the morrow, I '11 fell thy tree, — ■ 
I '11 teach thee, old fellow, to rail at me !" 

As soon as 't was light, if there you had been. 

Old Jack at his work you might have seen ; 

I would you 'd been there to see old Jack, 

And to hear the strokes as they came " thwack ! 

thwack!" 
And then you'd have seen how the croaking bird 
Flew round as the axe's strokes he heard, 
Flew round as he saw the shaking blow, 
That came to his nest from the root below, 
One after the other, stroke upon stroke ; 
"Thwack! thwack!" said the axe, said the crow, 

"Croak! croak !" 
Old Jack looked up with a leer in his eye. 
And "I '11 hew it down !" says he, " by and bye ! 
I '11 teach thee to rail, my old fellow, at me !" 
So he spit on his hands, and says, " have at the tree !" 
" Thwack !" says the axe, as the bark it clove ; 
" Thwack !" as into the wood it drove ; 
" Croak !" says the crow in a great dismay, 
"Croak!" as he slowly flew away. 
Flap, flap v^'ent his wings over hedge and ditch, 
Till he came to a field of burning twitch ; 
The boy with a lighted lantern there, 
As he stood on the furrow brown and bare. 
He saw the old crow hop hither and thither. 
Then fly with a burning sod somewhither. 

Away flew the crow to the house on the moor, 
A poor, old horse was tied to the door ; 
The burning sod on the roof he dropped, 
Then upon the chimney stone he hopped, 
And down he peeped that he might see, 
How many there were in family — 
There was a mother and children three. 
" Croak ! croak !" the old crow did say. 
As from the roof he flew away. 
As he flew away to a tree, to watch 
The burning sod and the dry grey thatch, 
He stayed not long till he saw it smoke. 
Then he flapped his wings, and cried, " Croak, croak !" 
187 



178 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Away to the wood again flew he, 

And soon he espied the slanting tree, 

And Jack, who stood laughing with all his might, 

His axe in his hand — he laughed for spite ; 

In triumph he laughed, and took up a stone, 

And hammered his axe-head faster on ; 

" Croak, croak !" came the carrion crow. 

Flapping his wings with a motion slow ; 

" Thwack, thwack !" the spiteful man. 

When he heard his cry, with his axe began ; 

"'Thwack, thwack!" stroke upon stroke; 

The crow flew by with a " Croak, croak !" 

With a " Croak, croak !" again he came, 

Just as the house burst into flame. 

With a splitting crash, and a crackling sound, 

Down came the tree unto the ground ; 

The old crow's nest afar was swung. 

And the young ones here and there were flung ; 

And just at that moment came up a cry, 

" Oh Jack, make haste, or else we die ; 

The house is on fire, consuming all, 

Make haste, make haste, ere the roof-tree fall !" 

The young crows every one were dead ; 

But the old crow croaked above his head ; 

And the mother-crow on Jack she springs, 

And flaps in his face her great, black wings ; 

And all the while he hears a wail. 

That turns his cheek from red to pale — 

'T was wife and children standing there 

Wringing their hands and tearing their hair! 

"Oh woe, our house is burnt to cinder. 

Bedding and clothes all turned to tinder; 

Down to the very hearth-stone clean, 

Such a dismal ruin ne'er was seen: 

" What shall we do ? — where must we go?" 

" Croak, croak !" says the carrion crow." 



Now ye who read this story through, 
Heed well the moral — 't is for you ; — 
Strife brings forth strife ; be meek and kind ; 
See all things with a loving mind ; 
Nor e'er by passion be misled, — 
Jack by himself was pimished. 



MAY FAIR. 

There is a town in Stafllbrdshire, 
That I was born atid bred in. 

And dear May Fair can make it gayer 
Than even a royal wedding. 

Come, I '11 live over my youth again ; 

Life has enough of sorrow ; 
From by-gone things we '11 mirth obtain. 

And think of care to-morrow. 

Come, we 'II be drest in all our best ; 

For hark, the bells are ringing ; 
And there 's no sign of rain to-day, 

And all the birds are singing. 



With happy folks beside us then. 
Their smiles like summer weather ; 

See how the women and the men 
Come trooping in together. 

And some come with a hobbling gait, 
And some come tripping proudly. 

And some come looking quite sedate, 
And some come laughing loudly. 

All come that can ; each farming man 

His best blue coat is wearing. 
And cart and gig, and shandry-dan, 

Bring fine folks to the fiiir in. 

And little lads, brimful of glee. 
With hands their pockets thrust in ; 

And trowsers turned up neatly, see. 
To keep their shoes from dusting. 

Now crowd they all amid the rout. 

As full of mirth as anj'. 
Each looking eagerly about 

To spend his fairing penny. 

And this will buy a cow and calf — 

But this of cakes is fonder ; 
And these will go to see the Dwarf, 

And those the Giant yonder. 

And roving round, see happy folks, 

With sunny, country faces ; 
Some cracking nuts, some cracking jokes, 

Some wearing modish graces. 

And just peep on the bowling-green. 
What capering and what prancing ; 

He 's fiddling there a merry air. 
To the merry people dancing ! 

Now, see those girls with one accord, 

Around that booth are staring; 
And many a lad has spent his hoard. 

To buy a handsome fairing. 

See, some give ribbons red and blue. 
And some give green and yellow ; 

And some give rings and brooches too. 
To show a generous fellow. 

Now hushed is every laugh and joke. 

To hear a sailor singing. 
How " Poll of Plymouth's" heart was broke, 

And " Monmouth's bells were ringing." 

And then how brave "Tom Tough," d' ye see. 

Brought to the Frenchmen ruin ; 
Of "Barbara Allen's cruelty," 

And " Crazy Jane's" undoing. 

But ere he has the next begun, 

See, round all eyes are glancing 
He stands alone, for all are gone 

To see the dogs a-dancing ! 

Ha ! there they are — why what a crowd ! 

And what a deafening racket! 
Well may they stare, for there 's a bear, 

And monkey in a jacket I 

188 



TALES IN VERSE. 



179 



But let us leave this noisy rout ; 

And let us leave the singing ; — 
We have not seen the round-about, 

Nor have we seen the swinging. 

We have not seen old wicked Punch 

His little wife a-bealing ; 
We have not thought what must be bought 

For wearing nor for eating. 

We have not been to see the shows, 

The lion and his crony ; 
The child so big — the learned pig — 

iVor yet the learned pony. 

Why, what a deal we have to do ! 

Come miss, and little master. 
We shan't get back by nine o'clock. 

Unless we travel faster ! 

There now, we have seen every thing. 

And each has got a fairing ! 
And homeward all, both great and small, 

Are leisurely repairing. 

And hark ! the bells are ringing round, 

As they rung in the morning ; 
But O ! they have a different sound 

In going and returning ! 



FRENCH AND ENGLISH. 

Thkre were six merry children, all frolic and fun, 

At play on a green 'neath the Midsummer sun ; 

And thus they sang, in their heartsome glee, — 

" We 're French and English — three against three ! 

These are the Frenchmen, meagre and thin. 

Hop, skip and jump, — do you think they'll win? 

These are the Englishmen, sturdy and stout ; 

Brave in the battle, ihey 'II win, no doubt. 

Pull away, pull with all your might — 

Pull away — that's the way we fight! 

*' Twenty battles we fight in a day ; 

Some we win, as best we may ; 

Some we lose, but we care not a pin — 

If we did not laugh, we should always win. 

French and English — here we stand — 

Three in an army, on either hand ! 

Pull away, pull with all your might — 

Pull away — that 's the way we fight ! 

" Who cares for a battle, where nobody 's slain ; 
They who are down may get up again ! 
None run away, like a coward or knave — 
Frenchmen and Englishmen, all are brave! 
Now again let the battle be tried. 
Three for an army on either side ; 
Pull away, pull with all your might — 
Pull away — that 's the way we fight !" 



THE LITTLE MARINER. 

Ay, sitting on your happy hearths, beside your mo- 
ther's knee, 

How should you know the miseries and dangers of 
the sea! 

My father was a mariner, and from my earliest years, 

I can remember, night and day. my mother's prayers 
and tears. 

I can remember how she sighed when blew the 

stormy gale ; 
And how for days she stood to watch the long-expect- 

ed sail: 
Hers was a silent, patient grief; but fears and long 

delay. 
And wakeful nights and anxious days were wearing 

her away. 

And when the gusty winds were loud, and autumn 
leaves were red, 

I watched, with heavy heart, beside my mother's dy- 
ing bed ; 

Just when her voice was feeblest, the neighbours 
came to say. 

The ship was hailed an hour before, and then was ia 
the bay. 

Alas ! too late the ship returned, too late her life to 
save ; 

My father closed her dying eyes, and laid her in the 
grave. 

He was a man of ardent hopes, who never knev/ dis- 
may ; 

And, spite of grief, the winter-time wore cheerfully 
away. 

He had crossed the equinoctial line, full seven times 

or more. 
And sailing northward, had been wrecked on icy 

Labrador : 
He knew the Spice-isles, every one, where the clove 

and nutmeg grow, 
And the aloe towers a stately tree with clustering 

bells of snow. 

He had gone the length of Hindostan, down Ganges* 

holy flood ; 
Through Persia, where the peacock broods a wild 

bird of the wood ; 
And, in the forests of the West, had seen the red-deer 

chased. 
And dwelt beneath the piny woods, a hunter of the 

waste. 

Oh! pleasant were the tales he told of lands so 
strange and new ; 

And, in my ignorance I vowed, I 'd be a sailor too : 

My father heard my vow with joy, — so in the early 
May, 

We went on board a merchant-man, bound for Hon- 
duras' bay. 

189 



180 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Right merrily, right merrily, we sailed before the 
wind, 

With a briskly heaving sea before, and the lands- 
man's cheer behind. 

There was joy for me in every league, delight on 
every strand. 

And I sate for days on the high fore-top, on the long 
look-out for land. 

There was joy for me in the nightly watch, on the 

burning Tropic seas. 
To mark the waves, like living fires, leap up to the 

freshening breeze. 
Right merrily, right merrily, our gallant ship went 

free. 
Until we neared the rocky shoals within the Western 

sea. 

Yet still none thought of danger near, till in the silent 

night. 
The helmsman gave the dreadful word, of "breakers 

to the right !" 
The moment that his voice was heard, was felt the 

awful shock ; 
The ship sprang forward with a bound, and struck 

upon a rock. 

" All hands aloft !" our captain cried ; — in terror and 

dismay 
They threw the cargo overboard, and cut the masts 

away; 
*T was all in vain, 't was all in vain! the sea rushed 

o'er the deck. 
And shattered with the beating surf, down went the 

parting wreck. 

The moment that the wreck went down, my father 

seized me fast, 
And leaping 'mid the thundering waves, seized on 

the broken mast : 
I know not how he bore me up, my senses seemed to 

swim, 
A shuddering horror chilled my brain, and stiffened 

every limb. 

What next I knew, was how at morn, on a bleak bar- 
ren shore. 

Out of a hundred mariners, were living only four. 

I looked around, like one who wakes from dreams of 
fierce alarm. 

And round my body still I felt, firm locked, my fa- 
ther's arm. 

And with a rigid, dying grasp, he closely held me 

fast, 
Even as he held me when he seized, at midnight on 

the mast. 
With humbled hearts and streaming eyes, down knelt 

the little band, 
Praying Him who had preserved their lives, to lend 

his guiding hand. 



And day by day, though burning thirst and pining 
hunger came. 

His mercy, through our misery, preserved each droop- 
ing frame : 

And after months of weary woe, sickness, and travel 
sore. 

He sent the blessed English ship that took us from 
that shore. 

And now, without a home or friend, I wander far 
and near. 

And tell my miserable tale to all who lend an ear. 

Thus sitting by your happy hearths, beside your mo- 
ther's knee. 

How should you know the miseries and dangers of 
the sea ! 



THE SNOW. DROP. 

The snow-drop ! 'T is an English flower, 
And grows beneath our garden trees ; 

For every heart it has a dower, 
And old and dear remembrances! 

All look upon it and straightway 

Recall their youth like yesterday, 

Their sunny years when forth they went, 

Wandering in measureless content ; 

Their little plot of garden-ground ; 

The mossy orchard's quiet bound ; 

Their father's house, so free from care. 

And the familiar faces there ! 

The household voices kind and sweet, 

That knew no feigning — hushed and gone ! 
The mother thai was sure to greet 

Their coming with a welcome tone ; 
The brothers thai were children then. 
Now, anxious, toiling, thoughtful men ; 
And the kind sister whose glad mirth 
Was like a sunshine on the earth — 
These come back to the soul supine. 
Flower of the Spring, at look of thine. 
And thou, among the dimmed and gone, 
Art an unaltered thing alone ! 

Unchanged — unchanged ! — the very flower 
That grew in Eden droopingly — 

And now beside the peasant's door 
Awakes his little children's glee. 

Even as it filled his heart with joy 

Beside his mother's door, a boy! — 

The same — and to his heart it brings 

The freshness of those vanished springs ! 

Bloom then fair flower in sun and shade. 

For deep thought in thy cup is laid ; 

And careless children, in their glee, 

A sacred memory make of thee ! 

190 



TALES IN VERSE. 



181 



A POETICAL LETTER, 



TO MASTER BENJAMIN 



Broom Hall, June Ilk. 
My dear Cousin Ben, 

With infinite pleasure this letter I pen, 
To beg you will come, like a very good friend. 
Six days of delight in the country to spend. 
Pray ask your papa, and on Monday I '11 wait 
(You can come by the Nelson) beside the park-gate ; 
And, there's a good fellow, bring with you your bow. 
And your new bat and ball ; — if the reason you 'd 

know, 
I can tell you, because there 's great work to be done, 
At shooting and cricket a match to be won : 
And to make it a pleasure the less to be slighted, 
Eight other young gentlemen have been invited, 
Their names are as follow — all promise they'll come — 
First, merry Tom Wilmot, we call him Tom Thumb ; 
The two Master Nortons, and witty Dick Hall, 
' And clever George Nugent, so famous at ball ; 
Ned Stevens the sailor, and gay Herman Blair, 
j And lastly Frank Thurlow, the great cricket-player. 
|| And now if you '11 count them you '11 find there are 
i ten. 

So come, as I pray you, my dear cousin Ben. 
And to give you some notion of how we 're to spend 
These six days of triumph, dear cousin, attend ; — 
But first I must tell you, papa is so good 
As to lend, for our service, the lodge in the wood ! 
He has had it repaired, and from Cornwall to Fife, 
You ne'er saw such a snug little place in your life ; 
With a low, rustic roof, and a curious old door. 
With a dozen straw chairs, and new mats on the floor : 
I And there we're to live, jovial fellows, indeed, 
, With good store of poultry, and fruit for our need ; 
' And there the old housekeeper, blithe Mrs. Hay, 
Is to cook us a capital dinner each day ; 
I And mamma has provided us dainties enow, — 
I Tarts, jellies, and custards, and syllabubs too ! 
I So come, my dear fellow, and with us partake 
I These six days of triuinph — fine sport we shall maae ! 
And now ] '11 go on telling what 's to be done : — 
' Imprimix, on Monday begins all the fun; 
I All ready in order, the guests will arrive — 
Half-a-score of the merriest fellows alive ! 
' When on Tuesday we all must be up with the dawn. 
For a great match of cricket we have on the lawn ; 
The prize will be hung up aloft on a tree, — 
A new bat ant! ball — as complete as can be. 
On Wednesday, a pleasant e.xcursion we make, 
Each equipped i laWallon, to fish in the lake ; 
And all that we catch, whether minnow or whale. 
Will be cooked for our supper, that night, without fail. 
On the morning of Thursday, gay archers are we, 
The target is ready, nailed up on a tree ; 
And the prize— such a bow and such arrows! — my 

word. 
But the twang of that bow fifty yards may be heard ! 
And the king of all archers, even bold Robin Hood, 
Had been proud of such arrows to speed through the 
wood ; 



That over, dear cousin, we all must be dressed, — 
'Tis my sister Bell's birth-day, — quite spruce, in our 

best; 
Dancing shoes on his feet, a la mode, very fine, 
And mamma has invited us that day to dine ; 
And Bell has invited nine friends of her own — 
Just a partner a-piece — they are all to you known; 
Miss Paget, Miss Ellis, Miss White, and the rest. 
And that beautiful dancer, the pretty Miss West: 
But I won't stop to tell you the names of them all, 
But the archery victor will open the ball. 
On Friday, betimes, has been fixed for our going 
Five miles down the river, a grand match of rowing. 
Two boats are got ready, and moored in our view, 
And each is as light as an Indian canoe ; 
The Sylph and the Swallow — the loveliest things 
That e'er skimmed the water, dear Ben, without 

wings ! 
And, lest that the water our boats should o'erwhelm. 
Papa and my uncle will each take a helm ; 
And my uncle, you know, an old sailor has been. 
And papa 's the best helmsman that ever was seen. 
So tell your mamma there 's no danger at all, — 
We shall not be o'erset or by shallow or squall. 
The prize for that day has not yet been decided, 
But before it is wanted it will be provided. 
On Saturday, Ben, is a great day of sorrow, 
'T will half spoil the rowing to have such a morrow : 
But papa has determined that morning to .spend 
In chemical wonders that scarce have an end — 
Among waters and fires, and vapours and smoke — 
On my word, cousin Ben, how you '11 laugh at the 

joke. 
And a lunch will be ready at one — and what then ? 
Why each one must go to his home back again. 

So, good-bye, my dear cousin ; be sure and come down 
By the Nelson on Monday — the fare is a crown — 
And more than a crown's worth of pleasure you '11 

get — 
And the lodge in the forest you '11 never forget. 

Papa and mamma and my sister, unite 
In love to my aunt and my uncle. — Good night! 
And believe me, dear fellow. 
As true as can be. 

Yours, anxiously waiting 

J. W. C. 



[Memorandum.] June ISlh. 

I went down to Broom Hall, according to my cousin'a 
invitation, by the Nelson. My cousin, and three 
young gentlemen who lived near, and had ridden 
over on ponies, were waiting for me at the park-gate, 
— it was then eleven o'clock. By three, all had ar- 
rived. The v^eather was very fine ; the lodge in the 
forest, one of the sweetest, most picturesque places I 
ever saw ; and Mrs. Ilay was in a good humour all 
the time, though I am sure we gave her a great deal 
of trouble ; — 1 have bought two yards of green satin 
ribbon for Mrs. Hay's cap, which I shall send by 
Thomas this afternoon : but now to go on with the 
six days. The matches were kept up with a deal of 
spirit. Frank Thurlow, as everybody expected, won 

ibi 



182 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



at cricket. I — I am proud to saj', got the bow and 
arrows — the finest things that ever were seen! and 
they have won me, since then, the prize-arrow at 

Lady 's archery meeting. The prize for row- 

mg was gained by the young gentlemen of the Sylph, 
and was a set of models of the progress of ship- 
building, from the Egyptian raft of reeds, up to an 
English man-of-war. The young gentlemen of the 
Sylph drew for it, and it fell by lot to George Nu- 
gent ; and with this every one was satisfied ; for he 
is a general favourite. 

All this I would have told in rhyme, that it might 
have matched my cousin's letter, but I am a bad hand 
at verse-making. Ben. 



ALICE FLEMING, 

They sate upon the green hill-side, 

Sweet Alice Fleming and her brother ; 
" Now tell me, Alice," said the youth, 
"And tell me in sincerest truth, — 
Thy thoughts no longer smother, — 

" Wherefore I should not go to sea ? 

Dost fear that evil will befall — 
Dost think I surely must be drowned, 
Or that our ship will rim aground, 

And each wind blow a squall ? 

" Dear Alice, be not faint of heart, 

Thou need'st not have a fear for me ; 
I know we 're orphans — but despite 
Our homely lot, in God's good sight, 
I '11 be a liither unto thee ! 

" Cheer up, cheer up ! the ship is stout ; 

A well-built ship and beautiful, — 
I know the crew, all brave and kind 
As e'er spread canvas to the wind — 

' The Adventure,' bound from Hull ; 

" A whaler to the northern seas ; 

And think, what joy to meet again ! 
Dear Alice, when we next sit here. 
Thou 'It laugh at every idle fear, — 

Wilt know all fear is idle then. 

" Three voyages I '11 only take, 

As a poor ship-boy — thou shall see 
So well the seaman's craft I '11 learn, 
That not a man from stem to stern, 
But shall be proud of me ! 

" Ay, Alice, and some time or other, 

I '11 have a ship, — nay, it is true. 
Though thou may'st smile ; and for thy sake 
I '11 call it by thy name, and make 
A fortune for us two." 



The boy went to the sea, and Alice 
In a sweet dale, by Simmer Water, 

Where dwelled her parents, there dwelt she 

With a poor peasant's family. 

And was among them as a daughter. 

Each day she did her household part, 

Singing like some light-hearted bird ; 
Or sale upon the lonely fells 
Whole days among the heather-bells, 
To keep the peasant's little herd. 

Poor Alice, she was kind and good ; 

Yet oft upon the mountains lone 
Her heart was sad, and 'niong the sheep, 
When no eye saw her, she would weep 

For many sorrows of her own. 

Sweet maiden — and she yet must weep. 

Her brother meantime far away 
Sailed in that ship so stout and good, 
With hopeful spirit unsubdued. 

Beyond the farthest northern bay. 

The voyage was good, his heart was light; 

He loved the sea, — and now once more 
He sailed upon another trip 
With the same captain, the same ship 

In the glad spring, for Elsinore. 

Again, unto the Bothman Gulf — 

But 't was a voyage of wreck and sorrow ,■ 
The captain died upon the shore 
Where he was cast, and twenty more 

Were left among the rocks of Snorro. 

The boy was picked up by a boat 

Belonging to a Danish ship; 
And as they touched at Riga Bay, 
They left him there — for what could they 

Do with a sick boy on the deep ? 

And there within a hospital 

Fevered he lay, and worn and weak, 
Bowed with great pain, a stranger lad, 
Who not a friend to soothe him had, 
And not a word of Russ could speak. 

Amid that solitude and pain 

He begged some paper and he wrote 
To Alice ; 't was a letter long, — 
But then he used his English tongue, 
And every sorrow he poured out. 

Poor Alice ! did she weep ? — ah yes. 
She wept, indeed, one live-long day ; 
But then her heart was strong and true, 
And calmly thus she spoke : — " I too 
Will go to Riga Bay!" 

" To that wild place !" the people said, 

" Where none can English understand? 
Oh ! go not there — depend upon t. 
He 's dead ere now — he does not want 
Your aid — leave not your native land !" 
192 



TALES IN VERSE. 



183 



'T was vain ; each word they spoke was vain ; 

She took with her the little store 
Left at her father's dying day, 
And for the Baltic sailed away : 

Such steadfast love that maiden bore ! 

Is this the boy, so stout and bold 
That on the green hill sat with her ? 

Is this the brother, blithe of cheer. 

The careless heart without a fear ? 
Is this the joyful mariner ? 

The same — for in that hospital 

There is no English boy but he — 
The same — the very same, none other, 
Sweet Alice Fleming, than thy brother — 
And well he knoweth thee! 

Ay, though the boy with suffering bowed. 
Was changed indeed, and feeble grown, 

Better to him than oil and wine. 

Better by far than doctors nine. 
Was his kind sister's cheering tone. 

And soon 't was told through Riga town 

What love an English sister bore 

Her brother — how she left her home 

Among the mountains, and had come 

To tend him on this distant shore. 

And she a maiden scarce sixteen I — 
'T was a sweet tale of tenderness, 

That all were happy to repeat ; 

The women, passing in the street. 
Spoke of it, and they spoke to bless. 

So did the merchants on the quay ; 

So did all people old and young ; 
And when into the street she went, 
All looked a kindly sentiment, 

And blessed her in their Russian tongue. 

But now the youth grew strong and stout, 

And as he to the sea was bent. 
And ne'er in toil or danger quailed. 
So, light of heart and proud, he sailed 
Mate of a ship from Riga sent. 

Its owner was Paul Carlowitz, 
A merchant and of Russian birlh. 

As rich as Croesus; and this same, 

Despite his ships, and wealth and name, 

For of an ancient line he came. 
Loved Alice Fleming for her worth. 

He was no merchant old and gruff. 
Sitting 'mong money-bags in state, 

Not he I — a handsome man and kind 

As you in any land would find. 
Or choose for any maiden's mate. 

And if you sail to Riga town. 

You'll find it true, upon my life ; 
And any child will show you where 
Lives Carlowitz, who took the fair 
Poor English maiden for his wife. 
17 Z 



ONE OF THE VANITIES OF HUMAN 
WISHES. 

PUER LOQUITUR. 

I WISH that I myself had lived 

In the ages that are gone. 
Like a brother of the Wandering Jew — 

And yet kept living on; 

For then, in its early glory, 

I could have proudly paced 
The City of the Wilderness, 

Old Tadmor of the Waste : 

And have seen the Queen of Sheba, 

With her camels, riding on, 
With herspiceries rich and precious stones, 

To great King Solomon; 

And all the ivory palaces. 

With floors of beaten gold ; 
And in the green, fair gardens walked 

Of Babylon the old ; 

And have talked with grey PhoenieianB 

Of dark and solemn seas. 
And heard the wild and dismal tales 

Of their far voyages. 

I could have solved all mysteries 

Of Egypt old and vast. 
And read each hieroglyphic scroll 

From the first word to the last. 

I should have known what cities 
In the desert wastes were hid ; 

And have w-alked, as in my father's house. 
Through each great pyramid. 

I might have sate on Homer's knees,. 

A little, prattling boy. 
Hearing all he knew of Grecian tales 

And the bloody work at Troy. 

I should have seen fair Athens, 

The immortal and the free, 
O'erlooking, with her marble walls, 

The islands and the sea. 

I should have seen each Naiad 
That haunted rock and stream; 

And walked with wisest Plato, 
In the groves of Academe. 

I should have seen old Phidias, 

Hewing his marble stone; 
And every grave tragedian. 

And every poet known. 

Think what a Cicerone 

I should have been, to trace 
The city of the Seven Hills 

Who had known its ancient race ; 

Had stood by warlike Romulus 

In council and in fray, 
And with his horde of robbers dwelt, 

In red-roofed huts of clay ! 

193 



184 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Think but of Julius Caesar, 
The heroic, wise, and brave — 

To have seen his legions in the field, 
His galleys on the wave! 

Then, to have sate in the Forum, 
When Cicero's words grew strong ; 

Or at evening by the Tiber walked, 
To listen Virgil's song! 

I should have seen Rome's glory dimmed 

When, round her leaguered wall. 
Came down the Vandal and the Goth, 

The Scythian and the Gaul ; 
And the dwarfish Huns by myriads, 

From the unknown northern shores ; 
As if the very earth gave up 

The brown-men of the moors. 

I should have seen Old Wodin 

And his seven sons go forth. 
From the green banks of the Caspian sea 

To the dim wilds of the north ; 

To the dark and piny forests, 
Where he made his drear abode. 

And taught his wild and fearful faith, 
And thus became their god. 

And the terrible Vikingr, 
Dwellers on the stormy sea. 

The Norsemen and their Runic lore 
Had all been known to me ! 

Think only of the dismal tales. 
Of the mysteries I should know, 

If my long life had but begun 
Three thousand years ago ! 



THE GARDEN. 

Nay, go not to the town to-day, 
The fierceness of this noon-tide ray, 
Like furnace-fire, will hotly fall, 
Reflected from each red-brick wall ; 
And the smooth pavement of the street. 
Will seem to scorch thy passing feet ; 
And in the crush, and in the crowd 
Of busy men, with voices loud. 
Mingle not thou ! but turn aside. 
And let me be this day thy guide ; 
Come to the garden ! Let us pass 
Adown this smoothly-shaven grass ; 
Soft, cool, and as a carpet laid 
For the fair foot of Eastern maid. 
Here cannot come the scorching heat 
Of noonday to thy cool retreat : 
The shadow of a broad plane-tree 
Is o'er thee like a canopy ; 
And, just anigh, within thine ear, 
The tinkle of a fountain clear. 
Within a marble basin falling; 

And 'mong the shroiiding leaver is heard 
The song of many an unseen bird ; 
And near and far the cuckoo calling ! — 



And here come odours that the breeze 
Brings from the scented flowering trees j 
Rich scent that gives the fancy flight 
To eastern gardens of delight ; 
And say, whatever bower of bliss, 
Was fairer in romance than this ? — 
Romance ! — ay sure, and we will find 
Some tale for this sweet spot designed. 
Some ancient tale of woe and wonder. 
Made to be read the blue sky under — 
Made to be read when thoughts are free ; 

Some tale of fancy, fresh and airy, 
Of beautiful dwellers in the sea. 

Or gambols of the summer faery ! 

Now scorching noon is passed, and closed 
The book on which our thoughts reposed, 
That pleasant book of fairy-wonder. 
Made to be read the blue skies under. 
Now let us take a wider range, 
The garden has unceasing change ; 
And in this sunset's golden tide. 
See how the flowers are beautified ; 
Sweet flowers, — sweet, radiant flowers that we 
Regard as visible poetry — 
The flowers of Greece, the flowers of Spain, 
Of islands in the Southern main ; 
Of sunny Persia ; far Catliay, 
And the lion-realms of Africa — 
How do they send the fancy forth. 

As if she had a ship to speed her 
To the far corners of the earth. 

Where'er a vagrant thought can lead her ! 
Where'er there is a breath of flowers, 
That far-off, pleasant land is ours ! 

Now, in these walks of verdant shade 
Which arching ever-greens have made. 
Let thee and me, with minds sedate. 
Watch till the evening groweth late ; 
For holy is that serious thought 
Which by the coming night is brought ; 
For then doth spiritual life unfold. 

As flowers in day-light open wide ; 
And God's good spirit, as of old. 

Seems to walk here at eventide ! 



SONG FOR THE BALL-PLAYERS. 

Up goes the ball with might and main. 
And soon it cometh down again ; 
Ups and downs, I 've heard them say 
For many a year, is the world's way ! 

Up goes the ball, — like a goblet-cup; 
Hold your hand as you send it up! 
Down it comes, — ere it reach the ground. 
Catch the ball so firm and round ! 

An up and down, that is the way. 
With a good round ball, that you must play; 
Up, high as you can, then down again, 
Five and five, and a double ten. 

194 



TALES IN VERSE. 



185 



The world is a ball, and every star, 
And the sun himself, great balls they are; 
Round they go, and round about. 
Ever and ever, yet ne'er are out ! 

Up goes the ball ! oh, if I threw 

Up to the very sky so blue, 

Up to the moon, or to Charles Wain, 

'T would be long ere the ball came down again ! 

An up and down — that is the way, 
With a good round ball, that you must play ; 
Up, high as you can, and down again, 
Ten and ten, and six times ten ! 

Face to the shade, and back to the shine ; 
Send up your balls with a toss like mine, 
Straight as a dart, as if 't were cast 
From the spring of a mighty arbalasti 

There it goes! good hick to the ball! 
Here it comes, with a plumping fall ; 
How merry it is, our balls to throw, 
Standing together thus in a row! 

An up and a down, that is the way, 
With a good round ball, that you must play ; 
Up, high as you can, and down again, 
Now we have counted ten times ten. 



THE KITTEN'S MISHAP. 

I 'll tell you a tale of a watery disaster ; 

Of a cat, and a kitten, and their little master; 

A tale it shall be, neither made-up nor silly. 

Of two good little children, named Peggy and Willy. 

They were not rich children and clever, like you, 

Who had books, toys, and pictures, and nothing to do ; 

They were two little orphans, that lived on a common, 

In a very small house, with a very old woman. 

A very old woman, as poor as could be ; 

And they worked for the bread that they eat, all 

three. 
The old woman was feeble, rheumatic, and thin, 
And with very great labour she managed to spin ; 
And all the day long, with unwearying zeal, 
From Monday to Saturday round went her wheel ; 
Yet with all her turning, she scarce could contrive 
To earn the small pittance that kept her alive ; 
So these good little children they both did their best, 
And gave from their earnings what made up the rest 

Of wealth, which so many consider a blessing, 
The three nothing knew — yet the joy of possessing, 
Even in this poor cottage the inmates could share, 
For the dame had her wheel, and her table and chair ; 
But Peggy and Willy, than these had far more ; 
For hers was the blackbird, that hung at the door. 
The sweet singing blackbird, that filled with delight 
Of its music, the cottage, from morning tonight: 
And his was the cat that slept under his bed, 
And never looked famished howe'er it was fed. 



Now, the tale that I had in my mind to rehearse, 
Was related by Willy, though not told in verse : 
Said Willy, " the cat had a kitten that lay 
Behind my bed's head, on a cushion of hay; 
A beautiful kit, though a mischievous elf. 
And given to prowling about by itself 
Now it happened, one day, as I come from my work, 
Before I had put by my rake and my fork. 
The old cat came up, and she pawed and she mewed, 
With the wofullest visage that ever I viewed. 
And she showed me the door, and she ran in and out; 
I couldn't conceive what the cat was about! 
At length, I betliought that the creature was good, 
And she would have her way, let it be what it would ; 
And no sooner she saw me inclined to obey. 
Than she set up her tail, and she scampered away 
To a pond not for off^ where the kitten I found 
In a bottomless basket, just sinking, half drowned — 
However it got there, I never could tell, 
For a cat hates the water — but so it befel ; 
Perhaps some bad boy this bad action had done, 
To torture the kitten, and then call it fun ; 
Yet that I don't know ; but I soon got her out. 
And a terrible fright she had had, there 's no doubt ; 
'T was a pitiful object, it drooped down its head, 
And Peggy for some time declared it was dead. 
But its heart was alive, spite the panic and pain, 
And it opened its eyes and looked up again, 
And we gave it some milk, and we dried its wet fur, 
And oh! what a pleasure there was in its purr; 
At length when we saw that all danger was over. 
And that, well warmed and dried, it began to recover. 
We laid it in bed, on its cushion of hay. 
And wrapped it up snugly, and bade it ' good day.' 
And then its poor mother gave over her mourning, 
And lay down and purred like the wheel that was 

turning; 
And she and the kitten by care unperplexed. 
Slept, purred, and scarce stirred all that day and the 

next ; 
Then scarcely a trace of her trouble she bore, 
Though meeker and graver than ever before." 
So here ends ray tale of this watery disaster. 
Of the cat, and the kitten, and their little master. 



SPRING. 



Spring ! the beautiful Spring is coming. 

The sun shines bright and the bees are humming ; 

And the fields are rich with the early flowers, 

Beds of crocus and daisies white, 
And under the budding hedge-row, showers 

Of the ficary golden bright ! 
Come, come, let you and me 
Go out, and the promise of Spring-time see. 
For many a pleasant nook I know, 
Where the hooded arum and blue-bell grow, 
And crowds of violets white as snow ; — 
Come, come, let's go! 

193 



186 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Let 's go, for hark, 

I hear the lark ; 
And the blackbird and the thrush on the hill-si 

tree, 
Shout to each other so merrily. 

And the wren sings loud, 

And a little crowd 
Of gnats in the sun dance cheerily. 
Come, come ! come along with me. 
For the tassels are red on the tall larch tree. 

And in homesteads hilly. 

The spathed daffodilly 
Is growing in beauty for me and thee ! 

MAY. 

'Tis Spring! 'tis Spring, all creatures know it, 
The skies, the earth, the waters show it. 
The freckled snakes come out i' the sun. 

The leverets race in the meadows green ; 
The sleep of the little dormouse is done, 
And the frisking squirrel again is seen ! 

Come, come who will. 

Let us take our fdl 
Of delight in the valley, the field, the hill ; 
Let us go to the wood that so late was still; 

The air is ringing 

With singing, singing! 

And flowers are springing 

The lanes along. 

The white and the red. 

And the umbelled head, 

And the single-blowing. 

All thickly growing. 
This merry May morn, a thousand strong ! 
The fishes are glad this May morning. 

And like things of light 

Through the waters bright. 

Flash to and fro! 
There 's a sound of joy in the youthful Spring - 

Hark! hark! 

There sings the lark ! 
Why tarry we yet ? let 's go ! 
The strong lamb boundeth. 

The glad foal neighs ; 
And joy resoundeth 

A thousand ways — 
Over hill, and valley, and wood, and plain, 
Joy poureth down like a shower of rain! 
I '11 tarry no more ! come, come, let 's go ! 



LIFE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

The splintered, northern mountains lay 
AH round about my mother's dwelling. 

All full of craggy hollows grey. 
Where ice-cold, sparkling streams were welling. 

Upon the mountains lay the snow. 
Far gleaming snows that melted never; 

And deeply, darkly, far below. 
Went sounding on, a lonely river. 



Upon the mountain summits hung 
The tempest-clouds so darkly scowling, 

And winds in cavemed hollows sung. 
Like unto desert creatures howling. 

Day after day the sunshine slept. 
Night after night the moon was hidden ; 

And rain and wind about us kept, 
Week after week, like guests unbidden. 

And many a time the deep snows fell. 
In the dark months of winter weather; 

And quite shut in our mountain dell, 
We, and our lonely flock together. 

We had a little flock of sheep, 
1 herded them both night and morning; 

My mother in the house did keep, 
Her busy wheel for ever turning. 

What joy it was, as I brought them round. 
Into their pen, at nightfall darkling. 

To hear that old wheel's droning sound. 
And see the cheerful wood-fire sparkling ! 

On stilly eves, beside my flock. 
The sounds I heard will haunt me ever. 

The eagle rising from the rock. 
The wind-bome roaring of the river: 

The gathering of the coming storm. 

Like far-off angry giants talking ; 
The grey mist like a ghostly form 

Over the ridgy mountain stalking ! 

I saw, I heard, I loved them all ; 

My days and nights were never weary. 
Tliough many a passing guest would call 

My life forlorn, those mountains dreary. 

Would I were back among the hills ; 

Could see the heath, and scent the gowan, 
Would I could hear those sounding rills. 

And sit beneath the lonely rowan ! 

But our little flock of sheep are gone. 
Like snowy clouds in moonlight flying ; 

And my mother lies 'neath the churchyard stone. 
With long, dry bent-grass round her sighing I 



PILGRIMS. 

With hoary hair, and bent with age. 
He goes forth on his pilgrimage, 
An old man from his forest-cell. 
With sandalled feet, and scallop shell ; 
His sight is dim, his steps are slow. 
And pain and hardship must he know. 
An old, way-faring man, alone. 
And yet his spirit bears him on. 
For what ? the holy place to see ; 
To kneel upon Mount Calvary, 
Golgotha's dreary bound to trace. 
To traverse every desert place, 

196 



TALES IN VERSE. 



187 



In which the Saviour trod of yore ; 
For this he beareih travail sore, 
Hunger and weariness and pain, 
Nor iongelh for his home again ! 

Now see another pilgrim, gay. 
And heartsome as a morn in May ; 
Young, beautiful, and brave, and strong. 
As a wild stag he bounds along ; 
Mountains his path may not impede ; 
The winds and waters serve his need. 
He is a pilgrim bound to see 
All the old lands of jx)esy ; 
At antique cross and altar-stone, 
And where dim pagan rites were done ; 
In groves ; by springs ; on mountains hoar ; 
In classic vale ; by classic shore ; 
Where wise men walked ; where brave men fell ; 
Or tale of love hath left its spell, 
It matters not — his foot is there, 
Joyful to breathe of classic air ; 
Joyful on classic forms to gaze. 
And call back light from ancient days. — 
It is a fond and ardent quest, 
And leaves its pilgrim ill at rest ! 

Behold, once more ! — From youth to age 
Man goelh on a pilgrimage; 
Or rich or poor, unwise or wise, 
Before each one this journey lies ; 
'T is to a land afar, unknown. 
Yet where the great of old are gone, 
Poet and patriot, sage and seer ; 
All whom we worship or revere ; 
This awful pilgrimage have made, — 
Have passed to the dim land of shade. 
Youth, with his radiant locks, is there ; 
And old men with their silver hair ; 
And children sportive in their glee ; — 
A strange and countless company I 
Ne'er on that land gazed human eyes; 
Man's science hath not traced its skies. 
Nor mortal traveller e'er brought back 
Chart of that journey's fearful track. 

Thou art a pilgrim to that shore, — 
Like them, thou canst return no more ! 
Oh, gird thee, for thou needest strength 
For the way's peril as its length ! 
Oh, faint not by the way, nor heed 
Dangers nor lures, nor check thy speed ; 
So God be with thee, pilgrim blessed. 
Thou journeyest to the Land of Rest ! 



COWSLIPS. 

Nay, tell me not of Austral flowers. 
Or purple bells from Persia bowers. 
The cowslip of this land of ours. 

Is dearer far to me I 
This flower in other years I knew ! 
I know the fields wherein it grew. 
With violets white and violets blue. 

Beneath the garden-tree I 
17* 



I never see these flowers but they 
Send back my memory far away, 
To years long past, and many a day 

Else perished long ago ! 
They bring my childhood's years again — 
Our garden-fence, I see it plain. 
With ficaries like a golden rain 

Showered on the earth below. 

A happy child, 1 leap, I run. 

And memories come back, one by one, 

Like swallows with the summer's sun, 

To their old haunts of joy! 
A happy child, once more I stand, 
With my kind sister hand in hand, 
And hear those tones so sweet, so bland, 

That never brought annoy ! 

I hear again my mother's wheel. 
Her hand upon my head I feel ; 
Her kiss, which every grief could heal, 

Is on my cheek even now ; 
I see the dial over-head ; 
I see the porch o'er which was led, 
The pyracaniha green and red. 

And jessamine's slender bough. 

I see the garden-thicket's shade, 
Where all the summer long we played, 
And gardens set, and houses made. 

Our early work and late ; 
Our little gardens, side by side. 
Each bordered round with London-pride, 
Some six feet long, and three feet wide. 

To us a large estate ! 

The apple and the damson trees; 
The cottage-shelter for our bees ; 
I see them — and beyond all these, 

A something dearer still ; 
I see an eye serenely blue, 
A cheek of girlhood's freshest hue, 
A buoyant heart, a spirit true, 

Alike in good and ill. 

Sweet Sister, thou wert all to me, 
And I, suflJicient friend for thee : — 
Where was a happier twain than we, 

Who had no mate beside ? 
Like wayside flowers in merry May, 
Our pleasures round about us lay; — 
A joyful morning had our day, 

Whate'er our eve betide ! 



THE INDIAN BIRD. 

A MAIDEN had an Indian bird, 
And she kept it in her bower ; 
The sweetest bird that e'er was seen, — 
I Its feathers were of the light sea-green. 

And its eye had a mild intelligence, 
1 As if it were gifted with human sense : 

11)7 



1S8 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In the English tongue it had no name, 
But a gentle thing it was, and tame. 
And at the maiden's call it came: 

And thus it sung one twilight hour. 
In a wild tone so sweet and low, 
As made a luxury of woe. 

"The nest was made of the silver moss. 

And was built in the nutmeg tree. 
Far in an ancient forest shade. 

That sprung when the very world was made, 

In an Indian isle beyond the sea. 

"There were four of us in the little nest. 
And under our mother's wings we lay ; 
And the father, the nutmeg leaves among, 
To the rising moon he sat and sung — 
For he sung both night and day. 

" And oh, he^ sung so sweetly. 

The very winds were hushed I 
And the elephant hunters all drew near. 
In joy that wondrous song to hear, 

That like wild waters gushed. 

" And the little creatures of the wood 

To hear it had a great delight. 
All but the wild wolf-cat, that prowls 

To seek his prey at night. 

" The wild w'olf-cat of the mountains old. 

He stole to that tree of ours — 
All silently he stole at night, 

Like the green snake 'mong the flowers. 

" His eyes were like two dismal fires, 

His back was dusky grey; 
And he seized our father while he sung. 

Then bounded with him away I 

" Wild was the cry the father gave. 

Till the midnight forest rang ; 
And 'Oh !' said the kindly hunters then, 
' Some savage creature, from its den 
Hath pounced upon that gentle bird, 

And seized it as it sang !' 

"All wearily passed that woful night 

With our poor mother's wail ; 
And we watched, from out our little nest, 
The great round moon go down to rest, 

And the little stars grow pale. 

" And then I felt our mother's heart 

Flutter, as in a wild surprise ; 
And we saw from a leafy bough above, 

The basilisk-snake, with its stony eyes. 

" It lay on the bough like a bamboo rod. 

All freckled and barred with green and brown; 

And the terrible light of its freezing eyes 
Through the nutmeg boughs came down. 

" And lithely towards the little nest 

It slid, and nearer it drew, 
And its poisonous breath, like a stifling cloud, 

Mong the nutmeg leaves it threw. 



" Ah me ! and I felt our mother's heart, 

As it beat in awful fear. 
And she gave a cry that any beast 

But the basilisk-snake had been woe to hear. 

" But he spared her not for her beautiful wings ; 

He spared her not for her cry ; 
And the silence of death came down on the woods. 

That had rung with her agony. 

" And there we lay, four lonely ones ! 

That live-long day, and pined, and pined ; 
And dismally through the forest-trees 

Went by the moaning wind. 

"We watched the dreary stars come out. 
And the pitiless moon come up the sky, 

And many a dreadful sound we heard — 
The serpent's hiss and the jackal's cry, 

And then a hush of downy wings 
The nutmeg tree went by. 

" And ever and ever that dreamy sound, 

For a long, long hour we heard ; 
And then the eyes so terrible, 
And the hooked beak, we knew them well. 

Of the cruel dragon-bird ! 

" We were his prey ; and then there came 

In the light of the morning sun. 
The giant eagle from the rock ; 
He swooped on the nest with a heavy shock, 

And left but me, the lonely one ! 

"Oh sorrow comes to the feeble thing, 

And I was feeble as could be ! 
And next the arrowy lightning came. 

And smote our nutmeg tree. 

" Down went the tree ; down went the nest. 

And I had soon been dead of cold. 
But that a Bramin passing by. 
Beheld me with his kindly eye: 
He bore me thence, and for a space 
He kept me in a holy place. 

Within a little cage of gold. 

"The Bramin's daughter tended me, 

A gentle maid and beautiful ; 
And all day long to me she sung, 
And all around my cage she hung 

The large white-lily fresh and cool, 

" And so I lived, — in joy I lived ; 

And when my wings were strong, 
She placed me in a banyan tree. 
Of her sweet will to set me free. 

For the Bramin doth no creature wrong. 

" But I could not leave that kind old man 

I could not leave that maiden bright: 
And so my little nest I built 
Beneath their temple's roof, and dwelt 
Among sweet flowers and all fair things 
The Indian people's offerings; 

And me she called her 'soul's delight,' 
In that land's speech a loving name ; 
And thenceforth it my name became. 
198 



TALES IN VERSE. 



189 



" But bloody war was in the land ; 

The old man and the maid were slain ; 
The precious things were borne away — 
A ruined heap the temple lay, 

And 1 among the spoil was ta'en. 

"They said I was an idol bird, 
That I had been enshrined there. 

And that the people worshipped me. 
And that my gentle maiden fair 

Was priestess to the sea-green bird ! 

'T was false ! — yet thus they all averred. 

And in the city I was sold 

For a great price in counted gold. 

Thy merchant-father purchased me. 

And I was borne across the sea; 

Thou know'st the rest — I am not sad ; 

With thee, sweet maiden, all are glad !" 



THE CHILDREN'S WISH. 

Oh for an old, grey traveller. 

By our winter fire to be. 
To tell us of each foreign shore, 
Of sunny seas and mountains hoar, 

Which we can never see ! 

To tell us of those regions stern. 
Covered with frost and snow. 
Where, not the hardy fir can bear 
The bitter cold of that northern air, — 
'Mong the dwarfish Esquimaux ! 

Or where, on the high and snowy ridge 

Of the Dofrine mountains cold, 
The patient rein-deer draws the sledge, 
With rattling hoofs, along the ledge 
Of mountains wild and old ! 

Or, if that ancient traveller 

Had gone o'er the hills of Spain, 
Of other scenes he would proudly speak, 
Than icy seas and mountains bleak ; 
And a weary way of pain. 

He would tell of green and sunny vales. 

Thick woods and waters clear. 
Of singing birds, and summer skies, 
And peasant girls with merry eyes. 
And the dark-browed muleteer ! 

Or, think if he had been at Rome, 

And in St. Peter's stood. 
And seen each venerable place. 
Built, when the old, heroic race 

Of Rome was great and good ! 

And more, if he had voyaged o'er 

The bright blue Grecian sea, 
'Mong isles where the white-lily grows. 
And the gum-cistus and the rose. 
The bay and olive tree ! 

And had felt on old Parnassus' top 
The pleasant breezes blow ; 



In Athens dwelt a long, long time, 
And noted all of that lair clime. 
Which we so long to know. 

And then, as he grew old and wise. 

He should go to Palestine, 
And in the Holy City dwell. 
Till, like his home, he knew it well, 

With the Bible, line by line. 

He should have stood on Lebanon, 

Beneath the Cedar's shade ; 
And, with a meek and holy heart. 
On the Mount of Olives sate apart. 

And by the Jordan strayed. 

And have travelled on where Babylon 

Lay like a desert heap. 
Where the pale hyacinth grows alone. 
And where beneath the ruined stone 

The bright, green lizards creep ! 

And if, the great world round about. 

Through flowery Hindostan ; 
To the Western World ; to the Southern Cape, 
Where dwell the zebra and the ape. 

Had gone this pleasant man. 

What tales he would tell on winter nights! 

Of Indian hunters grim. 
As they sit in the pine-bark wigwam's bound. 
While the hungry wolf is barking round, 

In the midnight forest dim. 

Or how they meet by the council fire, 
Wearing the hen-hawk's feather. 

To hear some famous Sagum's " talk," 

To see them bury the tomahawk. 
And smoke the pipe together. 

Or of the bloody Indian wars. 

When 'neath each forest-tree 
Was done some fell deed of affright. 
And the war-whoop rang at dead of night, 

Through the wild woods dismally. 

He would tell of dim and savage coasts. 

Of shipwrecks dark and dread ; 
Of coral reefs in sleeping seas ; 
Of bright isles of the Hesperides — 

And more than we have read ! 

And oh, that such old man were here. 
With his wise and travelled look. 

With thought, like deep exhauslless springs; 

And a memory full of wondrous things, 
Like a glorious picture-book .' 



THE ENGLISH MOTHER. 

A\ English matron sate at eve 

Beneath the stately tree 
That grew before her husband's hall. 

With her young son at her knee : 
199 



190 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



All green and ancient were the woods 

That grew around their home, 
And old and quaint armorial stones 

Adorned their stately dome : 
And 'mid dark trees, a little church 

lis holy form displayed. 
Within whose deep and quiet vaults 

Their noble dead were laid. 
The boy turned up his eager eyes 

To his mother, as she told 
Of the proud race from whom he sprung, 

And their achievements old. 
" My son, the legend of our house, 

Is simply ' Trust in God,' 
And none unworthy of such trust, 

Within its halls have trod. 
The blood of thy heroic line 

Has reddened many a field. 
And trophies of the fights they won 

Are blazoned on thy shield ; 
The banners which they bore away. 

All soiled and torn and red, 
Are mouldering in yon holy pile. 

Above the warrior dead ; 
And many an ancient coat of mail. 

And plumed helm and sword. 
All proved in some heroic cause. 

Within thy home are stored. 
Thou bear'st the noble name they bore. 

Their blood is in thy veins. 
And much thy worthy sires have done, 

But more for thee remains. 
They shrunk not in the dreadful hour 

Of persecution's scathe. 
And some 'mid bonds and some 'mid fire, 

Maintained their righteous faith. 
Thou must not shrink, thou must not fear, 

Nor e'er belie their trust. 
For God who brought the mighty low. 

He raised them from the dust. 
And in our dangerous hour of pride. 

When honours gird us round, 
Alas ! the boasted strength of man 

Is often weakest found ; 
And they who put their trust in heaven, 

'Mid darkness and dismay, 
Too soon forget the God they sought. 

When fear has passed away. 
The hour of chiefest danger now 

Is nigh — so heaven thee guide! — 
Prosperity will try thee, boy. 

As ne'er thy sires were tried ! — 
And oh, unworthy of thy sires. 

Not here couldst thou find rest ; 
Thou mighi'st not stand beneath these trees. 

Were thine a guilty breast ; 
These ancient walls, yon holy fane, 

This green and stately tree, 
Couldst thou disgrace thy noble name. 
Would speak reproach to thee I" 

Again the boy looked in her face. 
His bright eyes dimmed with tears, 



And " Not unworthy of my sires, 
Shall be my manhood years !" 

Said he* in a proud, but artless tone. 
And his mother kissed his brow, 

And said, " I trust in God that none 

Of thy noble sires in the ages gone, 
Had a nobler son than thou !" 



THE DEPARTED. 

" From the woods and the summer fields he is gone, 
With his merry laugh and his sunny brow ! 

The garden looks dim and the house is lone. 
Where, dearest mother, is ho wandering now?" 

"He is gone in a brighter home to dwell. 

With beautiful creatures all love and joy. 
Where death comes not, and no sad farewell 

With its parting tone can his bliss alloy. 
He is gone to a happier home than ours. 

Beneath the light of more radiant skies. 
And his path is bright with more lovely flowers 

Than in the sweet summer e'er met thine eyes. 

" Thou wilt meet him no more in the fields of earth, 

For the pleasant days of his life are o'er. 
And the joyful peals of his laughing mirth 

Will ring from our evening hearth no more. 
Thou wilt see him no more as he used to be ; 

Thou wilt sleep by his side no more at night , 
Nor with thee again will he bend the knee. 

And his evening-prayer with thine unite I" 

" Mother, his cheeks are cold and pale. 
His eyes are closed, yet he does not sleep. 

For he wakens not at my earnest call ; — 
Is it death, dear mother, — that rest so deep ?" 

" My child, his sleep is the sleep of death ; 

Yet we may not deem it a darkened lot. 
And his spirit, more pure than the breezes' breath. 

May be wandering near, though we know it not I 
And wish him not back, thou lonely child. 

Though we miss his love, and his pleasant voice, — 
Thou wilt soon to thy loss be reconciled, 

And again in the summer-woods rejoice. 

" He dwells where the fields can never fade. 

Where night comes not, nor day is dim ; 
Where the glory of God is the sun, and the shade 

Is the shadowing wing of the cherubim. 
And oh ! in yon bright and happy land, 

Thou again mayst his sunny beauty see. 
And hear his voice, 'mid a joyful band. 

From the shades of death as it welcomes thee !" 



A POETICAL CHAPTER ON TAILS. 

One evening three boys did their father assail, 
With " tell us a tale, papa, tell us a tale !" 
" A tale ?" said their father, " Oh yes ! you shall see, 
That a tale ol all tails it this evening shall be; 
200 



TALES IN VERSE. 



191 



A tale having reference to all tails whatever, 
Of air or of ocean, of field or of river ! 
First the tail of a cat, — now this tail can express 
All passions, all humours, than language no less." 
" Oh, you 're joking, papa," cried at once all the three, 
" Yours are tails with an i, and not tales with an e .'" 
'• Well, well," said their father, "I shall be surprised, 
If my tails with an i in the end are despised ; 
So, sirs, I '11 proceed : now this tail, as I said. 
Expresses what moves her in heart or in head. 
Is she pleased — you know it is quiet, no doubt ; 
Is she angry — you know how she wags it about ; 
Would she coax you, — she rubs, and she purrs, and 

her tail. 
With her back at right angles, she lifts like a rail ; 
Then the tail of a dog, — you need hardly be told, 
What tales this same tail of a dog can unfold. 
In his joy how he wags it — from turnspit to hound ; 
In his trouble, poor rogue ! how it droops to the ground. 
Then the tails of the horse and the cow, need I say ! 
What useful and excellent fly-traps are they? 
But away ! and the hot sandy deserts exploring. 
Do you hear how the terrible lion is roaring ! 
And see in the thicket his fiery eye flashing. 
And his furious tail on his tawny sides lashing ! 
Yes, he is the king of all beasts, and can send 
Most marvellous power to his very tail's end. 
The same with the tiger — and so of each kind. 
The tail is a capital index of mind. 
Then the fail of the rattle-snake — should you not fear 
Its dry, husky sound in the forest to hear ? 
Suppose you were sleeping, the tree-roots your bed. 
And this terrible monster had crept to your head. 
And his tail should awake you, — I 'm sure you 'd be 

glad 
That a tail with a larum the rattle-snake had. 
Apropos of the snake — you 've heard, I dare say. 
Of the wasp and the hornet, and such things as they ; 
Of a venomous weapon they carry about. 
And moreover, you all know, 1 make not a doubt, 
That 't is placed in the tail, which same venomous 

thing 
The wise of all nations have christened a sting ; 
But the tail of a bird for no mischief is sent, 
A most scientific, and good instrument. 
Constructed, indeed, on an excellent plan. 
Light, flexible too, and spread out like a fan ; 
'T is ballast and rudder, which ill he could spare, 
And a buoy to keep up the small creature in air. 
Of the ostrich, the tail is an elegant thing. 
Which is not despised by the mightiest king, 



2A 



And the handsomest ladies I often have heard, 
Give a monstrous price for the tail of this bird ; 
Then the sweet bird of Paradise — don't you remem- 
ber 
The beautiful creature we saw last November, 
With his banner-hke tail, that gracefully spread. 
And was seen like a glory encircling his head ? 
Of that of the peacock no word will I say. 
The thing is so common, you see it each day. 
And now your attention to change I could wish 
To a different tail — even that of a fish ; 
And no less than the tail of the bird is this made 
With wonderful knowledge the creature to aid. 
'Tis his helm, and with it no more could he keep. 
Than a ship without rudder his place in the deep. 
And the wisest philosophers all have decided. 
That no fitter instrument could be provided. 
That the shark, my dear boys, has a tail, without doubt. 
From some book or other you ' ve long since made out ; 
And you know how it puts, without hesitation, 
The crew of a ship into great consternation. 
When he flaps down his tail on the deck, and no 

wonder. 
For, like a sledge-hammer, it falleth in thunder; 
And lest that its force 'gainst the ship should prevail. 
The first thing they do, is to chop off its tail ! 
Besides there are others, — the monkey's tail ; you 
Know well what a monkey with his tail can do. 
And have we forgotten the beaver ? it yields 
The poor, patient creature great help w hen he builds, 
'T is the wagon he draws his materials upon, 
'T is the trowel to finish his work when 't is done. 
Of the fox. too, in Norway, you've heard, without fail. 
How he angles for crabs with his great bushy tail. 
And there is the pigtail that gentlemen wore, 
With its various fashions, about half a score. 
And the great cat-o'-nine tails! that terrible beasi. 
Has made itself iiimous by its tails, at least. 
And the tail of a comet! that tail, in its strength. 
Extending some thou.sands of miles in its length. 
Is nothing to laugh at ; a most awful thing, 
That could sweep down the world with its terrible 

swing ! 
And now since we've conned over bird, beast, and fish. 
What greater amusement, my boys, could you wish? 
But the next lime, however, I think we must try 
For some nobler subject than tails with an i .- 
And so, good night to each one, now this the last line 

is — 
And the book and the chapter shall here have their 
FINIS. 



201 



192 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



^inttlluntoufs ^ittt^. 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



THE VOYAGE WITH THE NAUTILUS. 

I MADE myself a little boat, 

As trim as trim could be, 
A little boat out of a great pearl shell, 

That was found in the Indian sea. 

I made my masts of wild sea rush, 

Tliat grew on a secret shore ; 
And the scarlet plume of the halcyon-bird, 

Was the pleasant flag I bore. 

I took for my sails the butterfly's wings. 

For my ropes the spider's line ; 
And that mariner old, the Nautilus, 

To steer me over the brine. 

For he crossed the sea six thousand years. 

And he knew each isle and bay ; 
And I thought that we, in my little boat. 

Could merrily steer away. 

The stores I took were plentiful: 

The dew as it sweetly fell ; 
And the honey-combs that were hoarded up 

In the wild bees' summer cell. 

" Now steer away, thou helmsman good, 

Over the waters free ; 
To the charmed isle of the seven kings, 

That lies in the midmost sea !" 

He spread the sail, he took the helm ; 

And long ere ever I wist. 
We had sailed a league, we reached the isle 

That lay in the golden mist 

The charmed isle of the seven kings, 

'T is a place of wondrous spell ! 
But all that happ'd unto me there 

In a printed book I 'II tell. 

" Now," said I one day to the Nautilus, 

As we stood on the strand, 
•' Unmoor my ship, thou helmsman good, 

And steer me back to land. 

" For my mother I know is sick at heart. 

And longs my face to see ; 
What ails thee now, thou Nautilus, 

Art slow to sail with me ? 
Up — do my will — the wind is fresh, 

To Bet the vessel free!" 



He turn'd the helm, and away we sail'd. 

Away towards the setting sun : 
The flying-fish were swift on the wing. 
But we outsped each one. 

And on we went for seven days. 

Seven days without a night ; 
And we follow'd the sun still on and on. 

In the glow of his setting light. 

Down and down went the setting sun. 

And down and down went we ; 
'T was a glorious sail for seven days. 

On a smooth, descending sea. 

"Good friend," said I to the Nautilus, 

" Can this the right course be ? 
And shall we come again to land ?" 

But answer none made he. 

So on we went ; but soon I heard 

A sound, as when winds blow. 
And waters wild are tumbled down 

Into a gulf below. 

And on and on flew the little bark. 

As a fiend her course did urge; 
And I saw, in a moment, we must hang 

Upon the ocean's verge. 

I snatch'd down the sails, I snapp'd the ropes, 

I broke the masts in twain ; 
But on flew the bark, and against the rocks 

Like a living thing did strain. 

" Thou hast steer'd us wrong, thou helmsman vile !" 

Said I to the Nautilus bold , 
" We shall shoot down the gulf! we 're dead men 
both! 

Dost know what a course we hold ?" 

And I seized the helm with a sudden jerk, 

And we wheel 'd round like a bird ; 
But I saw the gulf of eternity. 

And the tideless waves I heard. 

" Good master," said the Nautilus, 

" I thought you might desire. 
To have some wondrous things to tell. 

Beside your mother's fire. 

" What's sailing on a summer sea ? 

As well sail on a pool ! 
Oh, but I know a thousand things 
That are wild and beautiful ! 

202 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



193 



" And if you please to see them now, 
You've but to say the word — " 

" Have done !" said I to the Nautilus, 
" Or I '11 throw thee overboard. 

" Have done !" said I, " thou mariner old. 

And steer me back to land," 
No other word spake the Nautilus, 

But took the helm in hand. 

I looked up to the lady moon. 

She was but like a glow-worm's spark; 
And never a star shone down to us. 

Through the sky, so high and dark. 

And we had no mast, we had no ropes, 

And every sail was rent ; 
And the stores I brought from the charmed isle. 

In the seven days' sail were spent. 

But the Nautilus was a patient thing. 

And he steer'd with all his might 
On that up-hill sea, and he never slept, 

And he kept the course aright. 

And for thrice seven nights we sail'd and sail'd : 

At length I saw the bay 
Where I built my bark, and my mother's house, 

'Mong the green hills where it lay. 

"Farewell!" said I to the Nautilus, 

As I leapt to the shore : 
"Thou art a skilful mariner. 

But I '11 sail with thee no more." 



DELICI^ MARIS. 

Once, when I was a thoughtless child, 

I sate beneath a tree. 
Beside a little running stream, 

And a mariner sate by me ; 
And thus he spake : — " For seventy years 

I've sail'd upon the sea. 

"Thou thinkest that the earth is fair, 
And full of strange delight ; 

Yon little brook, that murmurs by. 
Is glorious in thy sight. 

" Thou callest yon poor butterfly 

A very marvellous thing. 
And listen'st, in a fond amaze, 

When the morning lark doth sing. 

"Thou speak'st as if God only made 

Valley, and hill, and tree, 
Yet I blame thee not, thou simple child ! 

Wise men have spoke like thee. 

" But glorious are the ocean-fields, — 
On land you 're trammell'd round ; 

On the right, and on the left likewise, 
Doth lie forbidden ground. 



" But the ocean-fields are free to all. 

Where'er they list to go. 
With the heavens above, and round about, 

And the wide, wide sea below. 

" Oh ! it gladdeneth much my very soul 

The smallest ship to see ; 
For I know, where'er a sail is spread, 

God speaketh audibly. 

" Up to the north, — the polar north, 

With the whalers did I go, 
'Mong the mountains of eternal ice, 

To the land of the thawless snow. 

" We were hemmed in by icy rocks. 

The strength of man was vain ; 
But at once the arm of God was shown, 

The rocks were rent in twain ! 

" The sea was parted for Israel, 

The great Red Sea, of yore, 
And Moses, and the Hebrew race, 

In joy went, dry-shod, o'er. 

" And a miracle as great was wrought 

For us in the polar sea. 
When the rocks were rent, from peak to base, 

And our southern course was freel 

" Yet, amid those seas so wild and stem. 
Where man hath left no trace, 

The sense of God came down to us. 
As in a holy place. 

"Great kings have piled up pyramids, 

And built them temples grand ; 
But the sublimest temple far 

Is in yon northern land. 

" Its pillars are of the adamant. 

By a thousand winters hew'd ; 
Its priests are the awful silence. 

And the ancient solitude ! 

" And then we sailed to the tropic seas, 

That are like crystal clear; 
Thou wilt marvel much, thou little child. 

Their glorious things to hear. 

" I have looked down to those ocean depths. 

Many thousand fathoms low, 
And seen, like woods of mighty oak, 

The trees of coral grow : — 

" The red, the green, and the beautiful 
Pale-branch'd like the chrysolite. 

Which, amid the sun-lit waters, spread 
Their flowers intensely bright. 

" Some, they were like the lily of June, 

Or the rose of Fairy-land, 
Or as if some poet's glorious thought 

Had inspired a sculptor's hand. 

" And then the million creatures bright 

That, sporting, went and came ! 
Heaven knows, but I think in Paradise 

It must have been the same: — 
203 



194 HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 


" When 'neath the trees that God had set, 


The red rose is the red rose still ; 


The land was free to all ; 


And from the lily's cup 


When the lion gamboH'd with the kid, 


An odour, fragrant as at first. 


The great ones with the small. 


Like frankincense goes up.— 




Oh, flowers, fair shining flowers, 


" There are no wastes of burning sand, 


Like crowned kings ye are! 
Each, in the nature of its kind, 


There 's neither heat nor cold ; 


And there doth spring the diamond mine. 


Unchanging as a star: — 


There flow the veins of gold. 


Empires have fallen to decay, 


" There, with the divers of the East, 


Forgotten e'en in name — 


Who down in those depths have been, 


All man's sublimest works decay, 


I 've conversed of the marvels strange. 


But ye are still the same! 


And the glories they had seen. 


11. 


" And they say, each one, not halls of kings 


With the ocean-caves can vie. 


Ye flowers — ye little flowers 


With the untrod caves of the carbuncle, 


Were witnesses of things. 


Where the great sea-treasures lie. 


More glorious and more wondrous far 




Than the fall and rise of kings ! — 


" And well I wot it must be so : 


Ye, in the vales of Paradise, 


Man parteth evermore 


Heard how the mountains rang. 


The miser-treasures of the earth ; 


When the sons of God did shout for joy, 


The sea hath all its store. 


And the stars of morning rang ! 


"Then I've cross'd the line full fifteen times. 


Ye saw the creatures of the earth. 


And down in the southern sea 


Ere fear was felt, or pain ; 


I've seen the whales, like bounding lambs. 


Ye saw the lion with the lamb 


Leap up, — the strong, the free : — 


Go sporting o'er the plain ! 


Ye were the first that from the earth 


"Leap up, the creatures that God had made. 


Sprang, when the floods were dried. 


To people the isleless main ; 


And the meek dove from out the ark 


They have no bridle in their jaws. 


Went wandering far and wide ; — 


And on their neclis no rein. 


And when upon Mount Ararat 




The floating ark was stayed. 
And the freshness of the flowering earth 


" But, my little child, thou sittest here, 


Still gazing on yon stream. 


The Patriarch first surveyed, — 
Ye saw across the heavens 


And the wondrous things that I have told 


To thee are as a dream ; — 


The new-made bended bow, — 


" But to me they are as living thoughts, 


Ye heard the Eternal bind himself, 


And well I understand. 


Upon its glorious show. 


Why the sublimest sea is still 


That never more the waters wild 


More glorious than the land: 


Should rage beyond their shore ; 




That harvest-time and time of seed 


" For when at first the world awoke 


Should be for ever more ! 


From its primeval sleep; 




Not on the land the Spirit of God 


III. 


Did move, but on the deep!" 






Oh flowers ! sweet, goodly flowers ! 




Ye were loved, in times of old. 




And better worth were crowns of flowers 


FLOWERS. 


Than crowns of beaten gold. 




They wore ye at the marriage-feast. 


I. 


When merry pipes were blown ; 


On the third day of creation. 


And, o'er their most beloved dead, 


Before mankind had birth. 


Fit emblems, were ye strewn ! 


Ten thousand thousand flowers sprang up, 
To beautify the earth : 


— The poets ever loved ye. 


For in their souls ye wrought. 


From the rejoicing earth sprang up 


Like seas, and stars, and mountains old, 


Each radiant, bursting bud ; 


Enkindling lofty thought! 


And God looked down, at eventide, 


But greater far than all — 


And saw that they were good. 


Our blessed Lord did see 


And now, as then, ten thousand flowers 


How beautiful the lilies grew. 


From the gracious earth outburst. 


In the fields of Galilee : — 


And every flower that springeth up 


Consider now these flowers, he said, 


Is goodly as at first : 


They toil not, neither spin,— 



204 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



195 



And God, himself; the garment made 

Which they are clothed in ; — 
In the perfectness of beauty 

Each several flower is made, 
And Solomon, in all his pomp, 

Was not like them arrayed ; — 
They are but of the field, yet God 

Has clothed them as ye see : — 
Oh, how much more, immortal souls, 

Will he not care for ye ! 



THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB OF THE 
COTTAGE. 

Oh ! poverty is a weary thing, 't is full of grief and 
pain. 

It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cun- 
ning brain. 

It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs 
complain ! 

The children of the rich man have not their bread to 

win: 
They hardly know how labour is the penalty of sin ; 
Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin. 

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have 

they to bear ; 
In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant 

share ; 
They walk among life's pleasant ways, and never 

know a care. 



That had a place within their hearts, as one of the 
family. 

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon 

their shed. 
The father laboured all day long, that his children 

might be fed ; 
And, one by one, their household things, were sold 

to buy them bread. 

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his thres- 
hold stood, 

Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart 
subdued ; 

" What is the creature's life to us ?" said he, " 't will 
buy us food ! 

"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with 

down-drooping head 
Each does his small craft mournfully ! — the hungry 

must be fed ; 
And that which has a price to bring, must go, to buy 

us bread !" 

It went — oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to 

wring. 
But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love 

doth cling. 
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each 

gentle thing ! 

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small 

to see, 
Most sorrowful to hear them plead for their pet so 

piteously ; — 
"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside 

have we ? 



The children of the poor man — though they be 

young, each one. 
Early in the morning they rise up before the rising sun, 
And scarcely when the sun is set, their daily task is I " Letjs take him to the broad, green hills," in his 

done. impotent despair. 

Said one strong boy, " let 's take him off; the hills are 
Few things have they to call their own, to fill their wide and fair • 



hearts with pride, — 

The sunshine of the summer's day, the flowers on 
the highway side. 

Or their own free companionship, on the heathy com- 
mon wide. 

Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful 
three ; 

But another curse there is beside, that darkens po- 
verty : — 

It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er 
it be. 

• A thousand flocks were on the hills — a thousand 

flocks, and more, — 
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly, — they were the rich 

man's store ; 
There was the while, one little lamb, beside a cottage 

door: 

A little lamb that did lie down with the children 
'neath the tree ; 
I That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nes- 
I tied to their knee ; 

18 



I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him 
there !" 

'T was vain ! — they took the little lamb, and straight- 
way tied him down, 

With a strong cord they tied him fast ; — and o'er the 
common brown, 

And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to 
the town. 

The little children through that day, and throughout 

all the morrow 
From everything about the house a mournful thought 

did borrow ; 
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their 

sorrow ! — 

Oh ! poverty is a weary thing, 't is full of grief and 

pain — 
It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron 

chain; 
It maketh even the little child, with heavy sighs 

complain ! 

205 



196 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE FAERY OATH. 

" Thy voice is weak, thine eyes are dim," 

The holy father said to him ; 

"The damp of death is on thy brow, — 

What is thy sin ? — confess it now ! 

Confess it — ere it be too late ; — 

Is it blood, or pride, or restless hale ?" 

" I have shed no blood," he thus replied, — 

" I have hated none — I have known no pride, — 

Yet have sinned as few men beside : — 

I have bound myself by oath and spell. 

To the faijry people of field and fell, — 

With solemn rites and mysteries ; — 

Can the church absolve such sins as these?" 

" My son," said the friar, " tell to me 

How such enchantment fell on thee ; 

For thou hadst sinned, or it might not be." 

The sick man lay on the greensward low, 

But he raised himself and his words were slow : — 

" I dwelt, as the minstrel dwells at best, 

The thymy wold was my couch of rest ; 

I watched on the ancient mountains grey, 

I dwelt in the greenwood, day by day; 

I knew each bird that singeth free, 

I had knowledge of each herb and tree ; 

I called each little star by name, 

I watched the lightning's subtle flame; 

I was learned in the skies and seas. 

And earth's profoundest mysteries. 

But best I loved, in the moonlight glade, 

To be where the faery people played ; 

And list to their music, sweet and low, 

Too soft for jojr, too wild for woe ! 

And I tuned, both even and morn. 

To the witching airs of the faery horn, 

Till I knew them all, and at will could bnng 

The revellers wild from their grassy ring. 

Then I sate with them at a banquet spread, 

I drank their wine that was ruby red. 

And a deadly sleep came o'er my brain ; — 

But when I opened my eyes again, 

I was not beneath my earthly tree — 

A heavy darkness hung over me. 

I lay in a couch-like chariot wide, 

And one who drove me sat beside : 

I heard him urge the horses fleet. 

And I heard the sound of their ceaseless feet ; 

On they went, o'er the rugged road. 

For days and days, with their easy load ; 

Swiflly we sped, and the passing air 

Was cool on my cheek, and lifted my hair; — 

On we went — over mountains high. 

And roaring waters, we journeyed by ; 

And through thick woods, where the air was cold: 

O'er sandy wastes, and the furzy wold : 

Day after day, as it seemed to me. 

In a gloom like the night of eternity. 

At length, I sate in another land. 

With the faery people on either liand ; 



Where was that land, I cannot say — 
Its light was not like the light of day, 
Its air was not like the air of earth — 
'T was the wondrous land where dreams have birth! 
There were glorious things of shape divine, 
There were fountains, that poured forth purple wine ! 
There were trees, that bent with their golden load 
Of fruits, that all gifts of mind bestowed! 
The very air did breathe and sigh, 
As if o'erburthened with melody! — 
But then there were frightful, creeping things, 
The coil of the adder, the harpy's wings, — 
The screech of the ov^'l, the death-bed moan, — 
And eyes that would turn the blood to stone ! 
I was set to the feast — and half in dread • 
I drank of the cup, and I ate the bread : 
I was told to bathe — and half in fear 
I bathed myself in those waters clear; — 
I ate — I drank — I bathed — and then 
I could no longer have part with men. 
I dwelt 'mong the faeries, their merry king, — 
I danced on the earth, in the charmed ring ; 
I learned the songs of awful mirth. 
That were made ere man abode on earth ; 
In the time of chaos, stern and grey, 
'JVIid ruins of old worlds passed away. 
A careless, joyful life I led. 
Till thrice seven years, as a day, had sped ; — 
Then a longing wish was in my mind, 
To dwell once more among human kind : 
So up I rose, but I told to none. 
What journey I was departing on ; 
And at the close of a summer's day, 
I laid me down on the Leeder brae. 
Ere long, came one, and a friar was he. 
Muttering over his rosary ; 
He was lean, and crabbed, and old, — 
His voice was thick, and his prayers were cold,— 
He moved not my heart ; — then came there by 
A fair child, chasing a butterfly; 
'T was a lovely boy — with his free light hair, 
Like a sunny cloud, o'er his shoulders bare ; 
."Vud as he danced in his glee along. 
He filled the air with a joyful song; 
I blessed the child from my inmost heart. 
With a faery gift, that could ne'er depart. 
Next came a maiden, all alone. 
And down she sale on a mossy stone : 
Fair was she, as the morning's smile. 
But her serious eye had a tear the while ; 
Then she raised to heaven her thoughtful look. 
And drew from her bosom a clasped book ; 
Page by page of that book she read, — 
Hour by hour I listened; — 
Still on she read, sedate and low. 
And at every word I was wfung with woe ; 
For she taught what I ne'er had known before 
The holy truths of the Christian lore ! 
And I saw the sinful life I led. 
And my human heart was shook with dread ; 
And I, who had lived in pleasures wild, 
. Now wept in awe, like a stricken child ! 

206 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



197 



Down I knelt, and I strove to pray, 

But never a hope to my soul found way ; 

For with that spell I was bound and bound, 

And with elvish snares was compassed round ; — 

But a prayer was ever on my tongue, 

For soon I learnt that prayers were strong. 

To unweave the webs that were in my track, 

To win my soul to the faery back. 

I have wrestled hard, I have fiercely striven 

'Gainst them, and for my peace with heaven ; — 

But now my strength doth ebb apace — 

Father, can the church award me grace. 

And among the blessed a dwelling-place ?" 

" My son," the reverend friar spake, 

" Behold ! how the faery web shall break ; 

Thou hast fought the fight — thou hast battled long- 

And the victor here is not the strong ; 

But the gates of heaven are opened wide, 

And the contrite heart is the sanctified ! 

Give up — stand like the Hebrews, slill — 

And behold the wonders of God's will ; — 

Lay down thy strift — lay down thy pride — 

I Lay all thy hope on Christ who died, 

, And thou art saved ; — for at his spell 
Not faery webs, but the gates of hell 

I Are dashed aside, like the morning mist — 
Oh, vainly might fay or fiend resist ! 

i Have faith ! 'tis the spell of glory, given 
To burst all bars on the way to heaven ; 
Have faith — have heaven, my son." — There ran 
A sudden joy through the dying man ; 

I And the holy father bent his knee, 

I Chanting, " Te laudamus, Domine !" 



CHILD'S FAITH. 

Bkautiful it is to behold thee sit, 

Listening the words thy father speaks of death ! 
To see thine unrebellious soul submit, 
And thine unquestioning faith ! 

O that I had thy faith, thou gentle child ! 

Thy trust in the bright future, — and could see 
Clearly, by human reasoning, undefiled, 
The spiritual land, like thee ! 

Teach me thy love, thou meek philosopher ! 
Show me thy nightly visions, bright-eyed seer ! 
I Give me thy faith ! — why should I blindly err. 
And shrink with anxious fear ? 

Why should my soul be dark, while I can pour 

Forth from my feeble longings, light on thine ? 
Why tremble I, where thou canst proudly soar ? 
Oh that thy faith were mine ! 

Death cannot chill thy heart, nor dim thine eye. 

For thou dost fear it not ; — thou hast no dread, 
In looking towards the future mystery, — 
No dark fears for the dead- 



With thee, the dead are blest: — they have gone 
forth. 
Thou knowest not whither, but to some fair home, 
Brighter, far brighter than our summer earth, — 
Where sorrow cannot come. 

It matters not to thee, that angel-guest 

Nor spirit hath come down to tell thee where 
Lie those delicious islands of the blest, — 
Thou knowest that they are ! 

What marvel, then, that thou shouldest shed no tear. 
Standing beside the dead, that thou shouldst 
wreathe 
Thyself with flowers, and thy bright beauty wear 
Even in the house of death ? 

Oh ! thou undoubling one, who from the tree 

Of life hast plucked and eaten, well mayst thou. 
Unknowing evil, walk in spirit free. 
With thine unclouded brow ! 

Thy faith is knowledge, — and without a fear 
Lookest thou onward in the light revealed ! 
Thou blessed child ! In thee will I revere 
The truth which God has sealed. 

I will not doubt — like thee I will arise. 

And clothe my soul in light, nor more repine 
That life, and death, and heaven, are mysteries: 
Thy strong faith shall be mine I 

Then may I see the beautiful depart. 

The fair flowers of my spring-time fade and die^ 
With an unquestioning, unrebellious heart. 
Strong in God's certainty ! 



AMERICA. 

A STORY OF THE INDIAN WAR. 

"I WAS at William Penn's country-house, called 
Pensbury, in Pennsylvania, where I staid some days. 
Much of my time I spent in seeing William Penn, 
and many of the chiel' men among the Indians, in 
council concerning their former covenant, now re- 
newed on his going away for England. To pass by 
several particulars, I may mention the following : 
'They never broke covenant with any people,' said 
one of their great chiefs ; and, smiting his hand upon 
his head, he said, ' they made not their covenants 
there, but here,' said he, smiting on his breast three 

times. 

****** 

"I, being walking in the woods, espied several wig- 
wams, and drew towards them. The love of God 
filled my heart; and I felt it right to look for an inter- 
preter, which I did. Then I signified that I was 
come from a far country with a message from the 
Great Spirit (as they call God,) and my message was 
to endeavour to pereuade them that they should not 
be drunkards, nor steal, nor kill one another, nor 
fight, nor put away their wives for small faults; for 
207 



198 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



if they did these things, the Great Spirit would be 
angry with them, and would not prosper them, but 
bring trouble on them. On the contrary, if they were 
careful to refrain from these evils, then would he 
Jove them, and prosper them, and speak peace to 
them. And when the interpreter expressed these 
things to them in their own language, they wept till 
tears ran down their naked bodies. 

+ *♦*** 

" They manifested much love towards me in their 
way, as they did mostly to upright, plain-dealing 
Friends ; and whilst I was amongst them my spirit 
was very easy: nor did I feel that power of darkness 
to oppress me, as 1 had done in many places amongst 
people calling themselves Christians." — Journal of 
John Richardson, one of the early Friends. 



They read of rapine, war, and woe, 

A party by an English fire, — 
Of Indian warfare in the wood. 

Of stern and ruthless ire. 

They read of torture worse than death — 
Of treachery dark — of natures base — 

Of women savage as the beast — 
Of the red Indian race. 

" Hold !" said the matron of the hearth, 

A woman beautiful in age ; 
" And let me of the Indian speak ; 

Close, close that faithless page I 

" My father was the youngest born 

In an old rural English hall ; 
The youngest out of five stout sons. 

With patrimony small. 

" His boyhood was in greenwood spent ; 

His youth was all a sylvan dream ; 
He tracked the game upon the hills ; 

He angled in the stream. 

" Quiet was he, and well content. 

With naught to fret, and none to chide ; 

For all that his young heart desired 
The woods and streams supplied. 

" Small knowledge had a youth so trained, 
College or school ne'er knew his face ; 

And yet as he grew up, he grew 
Superior to his race. 

" His brethren were of sordid sort. 

Men with coarse minds, and without range ; 

He grew adventurous and bold, 
Inquisitive of change. 

" And, as he grev, he took to books. 
And read what.e'er the hall supplied ; 

Histories of admirals, voyages old. 
And travel far and wide. 

" He read of settlers, who went forth 
To the far west, and pitched their tent 

Within the woods, and grew, ere long, 
To a great, prosperous settlement. 



" He read of the bold lives they led. 
Full of adventure, hardy, free ; 

Of the wild creatures they pursued. 
Of game in every tree. 

" And how the Indians, quaintly gay. 
Came down in wampum-belt and feather, 

To welcome them with courteous grace ; 

How they and the free forest race 
Hunted and dwelt together. 

" And how they and their chosen mates 
Led lives so sweet and primitive: 

Oh ! in such land, with one dear heart. 
What joy it were to live ! 

" So thought he, and such life it were 
As suited well his turn of mind ; 

For what within his father's house 
Was there to lure or bind ? 

"Four needy brothers, coarse and dull; 

A patrimony, quite outspent ; 
A mother, long since in her grave ; 

A father, weak and indolent! 

" At twenty he had ta'en a mate, 
A creature gentle, kind, and fair; 

Poor, like himself, but well content 
The forest-life to share. 

" She left an old white-headed sire ; 

A mother loving, thoughtful, good ; 
She left a home of love, to live 

For him, within the wood. 

" And that old couple did provide, 
Out of their need, for many a want 

Else unforeseen ; their daughter's dower 
In gifts of love, not scant. 

" His father with cold scorn received 

So dowered a daughter, without name ; 
Nor could his purposed exile win 

Either assent or blame. 
"All was a chill of indifference ; 

And from his father's gate he went, 
As from a place where none for him 

Had kindred sentiment. 

" And in the western world they dwelt ; 

Life, like a joyous summer morn. 
Each hope fulfilled ; and in the wild 

To them were children born. 

" All that his youth had dreamed he found 
In that life's freshness; peril strange ; 

Adventure; freedom; sylvan wealth; 
And ceaseless, blameless change. 

" And there he, and his heart's true mate. 
Essay 'd and found how sweet to live, 

'Mid Nature's store, with health and love. 
That life so primitive ! 

" But that sweet life came to an end. — 
As falls the golden-eared corn 

Before the sickle, earthly bliss 
In human hearts is shorn. 

208 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



199 



" Siclcness — bereavement — widowhood — 
Oh, these three awful words embrace 

A weight of mortal woe that fell 
Upon our sylvan dwelling-place ! 

" It matters not to tell of pangs, 
Of the heart-broken, the bereft ; 

I will pass over death and tears, 

I will pass on to other years, 
When only two were left ! 

" I and a sister ; long had passed 
The anguish of that time, and we 

Were living in a home of love. 
Though in a stranger's family. 

" Still in the wilderness we dwelt. 

And were grown up towards womanhood | 

When our sweet life of peace was stirred 
By tales of civil feud. 

" By rumours of approaching war, 
Of battle done, of armed bands ; 

Of horrid deeds of blood and fire, 
Achieved by Indian hands. 

" We heard it first with disbelief; 

And long time after, when had spread 
Wild war throughout the land, we dwelt 

All unassailed by dread. 

" For they with whom our lot was cast, 
Were people of that Christian creed 

Who will not fight, but trust in God 
For help in time of need. 

" The forest round was like a camp, 
And men were armed day and night ; 

And every morning brought fresh news 
To heighten their affright. 

" Through the green forest rose the smoke 
Of places burn'd the night before ; 

And from their victims, the red scalp 
The excited Indian tore. 

"This was around us, yet we dwelt 
In peace upon the forest bound ; 

Without defence, without annoy. 
The Indian camp'd all round. 

"The door was never barr'd by night, 
The door was never closed by day ; 

And there the Indians came and went. 
As they had done alvvay. 

" For ' these of Onas are the sons,' 
Said they, ' the upright peaceful men ! 

Nor was harm done to those who held 
The faith of William Penn. 

" But I this while thought less of peace, 
Than of the camp and battle stir ; 

For I had given my young heart's love 
Unto a British officer. 

" Near us, within the forest-fort. 

He lay, the leader of a band 
Of fierce young spirits, sworn to sweep 

The Indian from the land — 
18* 2B 



"The native Indian from his woods — 

I deem'd it cowardly and base ; 
And, with a righteous zeal I pled 

For the free forest-race. 

" But he, to whom I pled, preferr'd 

Sweet pleading of another sort ; 
And we met ever 'neath the wood 

Outside the forest-fort. 

"The Indian passed us in the wood. 

Or glared upon us from the brake ; 
But he, disguised, with me was safe, 

For Father Onas' sake. 

" At length the crisis of the war 
Approach'd, and he, my soul's beloved, 

With his hot band, impatient grown. 
Yet further west removed. 

"There he was taken by the foe, 
Ambush'd like tigers 'raid the trees : 

You know what death severe and dread 
The Indian to his foe decrees. 

" A death of torture and of fire — 
Protracted death ; I knew too well, 

Outraged and anger'd, as of late 
Had been the Indian spirit, fell 

Would be their vengeance, and, to him. 
Their hate implacable. 

" When first to me his fate was told, 
I stood amazed, confounded, dumb; 

Then wildly wept and wrung my hands. 
By anguish overcome. 

" ' Wait, wait !' the peaceful people said ; 

' Be still and wait, the Lord is good !' 
But when they bade me trust and wait, 
I went forth in my anguish great. 

To hide me in the wood. 

" I had no fear; the Indian race 

To me were as my early kin : 
And then the thought came to my brain, 
To go forth, and from death and pain. 

My best-beloved to win. 

" With me my fair, young sister went, 

Long Journeying on through wood and swamp : 

Three long days' travel, ere we came 
To the great Indian camp. 

" We saw the Indians as we went. 
Hid 'mong the grass with tiger ken ; 

But we were safe, they would not harm 
The daughters of the peaceful men. 

" In thickets of the woods at length 

We came to a savannah green ; 
And there, beneath the open day, 

The Indian camp was seen. 

" I turned me from that scene of war. 

And from the solemn council-talk. 
Where stood the warriors, stern, and cold. 
War-crested, and with bearing bold. 
Listening unto a sachem old. 

Who held alofi a tomahawk. 

209 



200 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" I knew they were athirst for blood ; 

That they had pity none to spare ; — 
Besides, bound to a tree, I saw 

An English captive there. 

" I saw his war-plume, soil'd and torn ; 

I knew that he was doom'd to die ; 
Pale, wounded, feeble, there he stood ; 
The ground was crimson'd with his blood ; 
Yet stood he as a soldier should — 

Erect, with calm, determined eye. 

" I would not he should see me then, — 
The sight his courage had betray'd ; 

Therefore unseen we stepp'd aside, 
Into the forest-glade. 

" An Indian woman there was set, 

We knew her, and to her were known ; 

The wife of a great chief was she. 

Deck'd in her Indian bravery ; 
Yet there she sat alone. 

" ' Woman,' I said, the silence breaking, 
' Thou know'st us — know'st that we belong 

To peaceful people, who have ne'er 
Done to thy nation wrong. 

" ' Thou know'st that ye have dwelt with us. 
As friend upon the hearth of friend; — 

When have ye ask'd and been denied. 
That this good faith should end?' 

" The Indian did not raise her head. 

As she replied in accents low, 
' Why come ye hither unto me. 

When I am sitting in my woe ? 

" 'Woman,' I said, ' I ask for life — 
For life, which in your hands doth lie; 

Go bid thy tribe release the bands 
Of him now doomed to die ! 

" ' Go, Indian woman, and do this. 
For thou art mighty with thy race !' 

The Indian made me no reply, 
But looked into my face. 

" ' Mighty ! said'st thou V at length she spoke, 
' Mighty ! — to one no longer wile ! 

The hatchet and the tomahawk 

Lie by me on the forest-walk ; 

The great chief in my hut lies low, 

The ruthless pale-liice struck the blow — 
And yet thou com'st to me for life !' 

" ' By that chief's memory,' I cried, 

' Whom ne'er the peaceful men gainsaid ; 

To whom the peaceful men were dear ; 
Rise, though thou stricken be, and aid ! 

" ' Crave not revenge,' and with my words 
My tears flow'd fast, though hers were dry ; 

'But look upon this pictured face. 
And say if such a one shall die !' 



•' Long looked she on the pictured face. 
Which from my neck I took and gave ; 

Long looked she ere a word was spoke. 

And then she slowly silence broke, 

'The hatchet is not buried yet; 

The tomahawk with blood is wet ; 
And the great chief is in his grave ! 

" ' Yet for the father Onas' sake — 

For their sakes who no blood have shed ; 
We will not by his sons be blamed 
For taking life which they have claimed ;— 
The red man can avenge his dead !' 

" So saying, with her broken heart — 
She went forth to the council-stone ; 
And when the captive was brought out, 
'Mid savage war-cry, taunt and shout. 
She stepp'd into the fierce array. 
As the bereaved Indian may. 
And claim'd the victim for her own. 

" He was restored. What need of more 

To tell the joy that thence ensued I 
But sickness followed long and sore. 
And he for a twelvemonth or more, 
Witii our good, peaceful friends abode. 

" But we, two plighted hearts, were wed; 

A merry marriage ye may wis ; — 
And guess ye me a happy life — 
In England here, an honoured wife,— 
Sweet friends, ye have not guess'd amiss! 

" But never more let it be said. 

The red man is of nature base ; 
Nor let the crimes that have been taught. 
Be by the crafty teachers brought 
As blame against the Indian race !" 



THE DOOMED KING. 

The voice of an archangel spake — 
" A dark one draweth near. 

Covered with guilt as with a robe ; — 
Wherefore doth he appear?" 

And another answered solemnly — 
"He comes for judgment here!" 

Through myriad, myriad shapes of bliss. 
On went the Spectre King, 

And stood before the judgment-seat, 
A guilty, trembling thing! 

" I was an earthly king last night," 
With a hollow voice he spoke; 

" I drank the wine, I sank to sleep — 
Oh! how have I awoke! 

"Alas! my life has been a dream — 

A sinful dream : 't is o'er ! 
And through eternity, my soul 

Shall slumber never more ! 

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MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



201 



" Back through the past my soul is urged ; 

Back through each guilty stain ; 
And every thought, and word, and deed, 

Unperished lives again ! 

" For, as a leaf before the storm 

Is bowed and borne away. 
Some mighty power compelleth me, 

And it must have its way ; 
Though every word condemn my soul, 

I dare not disobey ! 

" I see a white, low village-home ; 

I see a woman there; 
And a little child kneels at her knee, 

And murmurs out its prayer. 

" It is the first-born of her love — 

Fairest, and most caressed ; 
Heaven only has a second place 

Within that woman's breast. 

" Mother, dear mother ! by thy love. 
Thy sorrowings, and thy truth. 

Plead for me in my hour of need ! 
Think on my sinless youth! 

Ah, no! thou canst not plead for me! 

A dark and fearful time 
Hath parted us, and death hath oped 

The mystery of my crime ! 

"I made thy nights a weary watch; 

I gloomed thy days with shame ; 
And a dark word by which men are cursed, 

I made my father's name ! 

" I was the eldest of our house ; 

Beside me there were three; 
And pure and simple had they lived. 

Had it not been for me ! 
But now their blood unto my soul 

Doth cleave like leprosy ! 

" I stood as in a father's place. 

As the sun before their sight. 
Beloved of all ; and in their eyes 

Whate'er I did was right, 

" .Alas ! my heart was a cursed thing! 

I lured them on to sin, 
I lured them to a dark abyss, 

And plunged them headlong in! 

" Bodies and souls I ruined them ; 

Yet in men's sight i kept 
My name unstained — on their's alone 

The inftimy was heaped. 

" They were my tools, and subtly 

I wrought them to my will ; 
A tyrant to the wretched slaves 

I bound to me for ill ! 

" Xo, no ! for me thou canst not plead ! 

I spoke not for the three ; 
And in thy broken-hearted ness, 

I kept them far from thee. 
With cruel, specious lies I — no, no, 

Thou canst not plead for me ! 



" The first, he died a dreadful death, 

Of lingering, horrid pain ; 
I saw him as a stealthy spy — 

His soul had broke my chain; 

" Therefore I gave him to a power 

More fell than death, — and he 
Was racked for crime he had not wrought ; — 

And so died cruelly. 

" The second had a feebler soul ; 

A gentle, timid thing ; 
A child in spirit, to whose heart, 

Good never ceased to cling. 

'T was vain I crushed him, scorned him, spum'd , 

His was a truth unchanged : 
Fallen as he was, his steadfast love 

Kept with me unestranged ! 

" And, in my after misery, 

When evil days came down, 
He saved me ; and my coward life 

He ransomed with his own ! 

" Brothers ! why rise ye not, each one. 

Upon this judgment-day; 
The bitter wrongs I heaped on you, 

Had power my soul to slay I 

"The third, a spirit like to mine ; 

The nearest to my heart ; 
The only one I counselled with, — 

Who in my power had part : 

" He sate with me at the board last night. 

He took from me the wine ; 
Traitor, there's blood upon thy hand. 

And judgment will be thine ! 

" Ah, no I the guilt is mine — is mine ! 

I drew the three from Heaven ; 
I sold them to work wickedness. 

And may not be forgiven ! 

" Talents and time — the noblest gifts 

Ever on man bestowed. 
Were mine ; a soft and winning speech. 

And beauty like a god ! 

" All, all were passion's vilest slaves ; — 

All ministered to crime ; 
And now a dark eternity 

Doth make account with time. 

" I had a power, an awful power 

Over men's minds ; I wove. 
Base as I was, around all hearts 

A chain, half fear, half love. 

"They were as clay ; I moulded them 
With the light words of my tongue ; 

Old men and wise alike obeyed : 
And thence ambition sprung. 

" The sin of angels was my sin ; 

And, bold as was my thought, 
Men, weak and willing instruments, 

They gave me what I sought ! 
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HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Then woke the tyrant stem and proud ; 

And, as unto the three, 
I did to them, — I raised myself 

On weak humanity. 

" Rapine and outrage, and despair, 

Over the land spread wide ; 
And what was wrung from poverty 

My luxury supplied. 

"The little that the poor man had, 

In vain he guarded well ; 
Mine eye was as the basilisk's, 

That withered where it fell. 

" My sceptre was an iron rod ! 

The suffering people's groan, 
Like sullen thunders heard afar. 

Was echoed to the throne : 

" To me it was a mockery ! 

I scoffed at wise men's lore ; 
And to the madness of my power 

I gave myself still more. 

"Of seven dark and deadly sins, 
Like plague-spots on the past — 

Of seven dark and deadly sins, 
I must recount the last : — 

" There was a maid — a fair young thing - 

High-born, and undefiled 
By thought of sin ; so meek, so wise ; 

In heart so like a child ! 

" In the beauty of her innocence, 

She had no earthly fear : 
The blackness of my evil heart 

I masked when she was near. 

" With subtle mockery of good, 

Her pure soul did I win ; 
And fervent, lying vows I paid, 

Ere she was lured to sin. 
"I brought destruction on her house — 

The blameless and the brave ! 
And its grey-headed sire went down 

Dishonoured to the grave. 

"This was the triumph of my art ; 

This gave her to my power ; 
Poor slave to passion's tyranny, — 

The idol of an hour! 

" Vain was her passionate despair, 

My callous heart to wring ; 
I left her to her misery — 

A lorn, heart-broken thing ! 

" I took of her no further thought — 

My life was in its prime ; 
An(f in a wild carouse I lived 

Of luxury and crime. 

" 'T was, staggering from a long debauch. 

From some impure retreat. 
At midnight, in a dark disguise. 

Along the city street, 



" And I and my companions saw, 

Amid our shameless mirth, 
A small train of poor men, who bore 

Some child of clay to earth. 

" A thought of mad impiety 

Rushed through my drunken brain; 

I seized the foremost by the arm. 
And stopped the funeral train. 

" ' Let's look upon the dead !' I cried ; 

No answering word they said ; 
But gazed on me upbraid ingly. 

And then unveiled the dead ! 

" The dead ! yes, on the dead I looked ! 

Oh ! sight of woe to me ! 
The one I drew as down from heaven, 

And cast to infamy ! 

" Not in her beauty was she laid, 

As for the high-born meet; 
The coarsest garb of poverty 

Was her poor winding-sheet ! 

"The drunken frenzy of my brain 
Was gone — and through my soul 

A wild, remorseful agony. 
Like a fierce weapon stole! 

" From that night, life became a pang : 

A dark, upbraiding sprite 
Seemed ever nigh, for that one sin 

Reproaching day and night. 

"The gnawing sense of evil done, 

Was as a desert beast 
Above its prey — my living soul 

Its unconsumed feast! 

" I plunged into yet madder guilt, 

To hush the ceaseless cry ; 
I matched my strength against remorse. 

And sinned more recklessly ! 

" Vain, vain ! through war, through civil strife ; 

Kept with me in each place, 
The broken-hearted wretchedness 

Of that dead woman's face ! 

" So, doomed to hopeless misery, 

I loathed the light of day ; 
I loathed the sight of human eye, 

And gave the passion way ! 

" It grew a cruel moodiness ; 

The tyrant's jealous sense, 
To which the joy of other hearts 

Becomes a black offence. 

" Thus I was hated, feared, and shunned ; 

And hatred filled my mind 
For all my race ; and long I lived 

In warfare with mankind. 

" The cup I drained was a poisoned cup — 

'T was red wine at the brim ; 
I took it from my brother's hand — 

I had no fear of him I 

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MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



203 



"I sank down on the couch to rest, 
The while he watched near; 

I slept — I woke — oh, awful Judge! 
I woke — and I am here !" 



THE DREAM OF PETICIUS. 



Still lay the vessel like a sleeping thing; 

The calm waves with a quiet ripple died ; 
The lazy breeze seemed all too faint to bring 

The cry of sea-birds dipping in the tide; 
The flagging streamer droopingiy did cling 

Unto the mast. The unruffled ocean wide 
Lay like a mirror, in whose depths were seen 
Each sunlit peak, and woody headland green. 

II. 
More than a league they had not sailed that day; 

Yet on the coast was seen eacli sleeping hill; 
And island, that at noon before them lay. 

In the calm evening lay before them still. 
The wearied seamen sped the time away 

With snatches of blithe song or whistle shrill ; 
And in a group apart, the people told 
Wild tales, and dreams, and dark traditions old. 

iir. 

^he captain was a thoughtful man, whose prime 
Had been in foreign lands and voyage spent ; 

Who brought back marvellous history from each clime, 
And found adventure wheresoe'er he went. 

And, as such men are wont in idle time. 
He from his life drew pleasant incident ; 

Then, as if woke to thought, began to say 

What a strange dream he had ere break of day. 

IV. 

** 'T was while our vessel scudding to the breeze, 
Fled, like a strong bird, from your pleasant shore. 

My dream was of these bright and stirless seas. 
The flagging canvass, and the useless oar ; 

I saw, as now I see, in slumbrous ease 
Green Pelion's head, and those dim mountains hoar 

Resting afar ; I saw yon glancing bird ; 

And the low ripphng of these waves I heard. 

V. 
"While then I stood, as even now I stand, 

My eye upon the stilly ocean bent, 
I saw a boat push quickly from the land. 

And eager rowers with a firm intent 
Make towards the ship. Within, a little band 

Sate in mute sadness, as by travel spent; 
And 'mid them one, superior to the rest. 
Pale, as his soul by heavier thought was prest. 

VI. 

"They neared.— and marvelling yet more and more, 
I saw 'twas Pompey ; not as 1 beheld 
I Hira in the senate, when he stood before 

Fierce Sylla, and with taunts his wrath repelled, 



Till the Dictator quaked ; or when he bore 

In triumph trophies from ten nations quelled, 
Ardent and bold, whom myriads as he went 
Hailed as immortal and magnificent. 

VII. 

"Not now as then — pale, thoughtful, ill at rest. 
His fate seemed warring with his mighty will ; 

His hand on his contracted brow was prest. 

As it the force of throbbing thought could still ; 

Anon he wrapped his mantle o'er his breast 
With a calm hand, as nerved for coming ill, 

The.i with a calm, majestic air arose. 

And claimed protection from his following foes." 

vin. 

Even while some pondering sate with thoughtful air. 
And some made merry with so strange a tale, 

All eyes were turned in sudden wonder where 
White o'er the waters gleamed a little sail ; — 

On through the calm the striving pinnace bare ; — 
Then sorrow woke, and firmest brows grew pale. 

For worn and wearied, Pompey they behold, 

E\en as that prophetic dream foretold. 

IX. 

From the disastrous field of Pharsaly 
He fled — his star of fate was in the wane ; 

He had lived a life of victory to see 
In one brief hour his veteran legions slain ; — 

But yesterday — the world's proud lord was he. 
To-day — a fugitive upon the main ; — 

Like a fair tree by sudden blight defaced, 

Blasted and withering in the desert waste. 



The sea for him by that dead calm was bound. 
For now a strong wind filled the swelling sail, 

And shook the cordage with a rattling sound ; 
Forward the pennon floated on the gale. 

And the dark living waters heaved around ; 
No more the islands to the right they hail, 

Green Pelion's woody crown no more was seen ; 

But the ship voyaged free to Mitylene. 



LODORE, A SUMMER VISION. 

Oft in the days of bright July, 
When the parched earth is brown and dry, 
And the hot noon-day's sun looks down 
Upon the dusty, barren town. 
And scorching walls, sun-smitten, glare — 
And stifling is the breezeless air. 
And through the day, flows all around 
A ceaseless tide of wearying sound, 
And busy crowds with restless feet. 
Pass up and down the burning street, 
I sit in some still room apart. 
And summer visions fill my heart ; 
213 



204 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Visions of beauty, green and cool — 




The water-lily's shadowy pool : 


DU GUESCLIN'S RANSOM. 


The untrodden wood's sequestered shine, 




Where hides the lustrous columbine, 


The black Prince Edward sate at meat 


And leaves astir for ever make 


Amid his chivalrie, 


A breezy freshness through the brake. 


Two hundred knights at the board were set, 




And the rosy wine ran free : 


I think of some old country hall. 


They were mailed men in merry cheer, 


With carved porch, and chimneys tall, 


And the Prince sate on the dais. 


And pleasant windows many a one, 


And his laugh was loudest through the hall. 


Set deep into the old, grey stone. 


Upon that day of grace : 


Hid among trees so large and green, 


And some they told the jester's tale, 


'T is only dimly to be seen. 


And some they gaily sang, 


I think of its dusk garden-bowers. 


Till the hall of old Valenciennes 


Its little plots of curious flowers, 


To the dusky rafters rang ; 


Its casements wreathed with jessamme, 


But 'mid the mirth and 'mid the wine 


Flung wide to let all odours in. 


There sate an aged knight. 


And all sweet sounds of bird and bee, 


And heavy thoughts within his soul 


And the cool fountain's melody. 


Had dimmed his spirits light ; 




Quoth Edward, " By my faith, this man 


I think of mountains still and grey, 


Doth mar our heartsome cheer ! 


Stretchmg in summer light away. 


Sir knight, do battle with thy woe, 


Where the blue, cloudless skies repose 


Or stay no longer here." 


Above the solitude of snows; 


" My liege." said he, " my soul is dark 


Of gleaming lakes, whose waters lie 


With pondering on the wrong. 


In restless beauty sparklingly ; 


Done to the bravest man of France, 


Of little island-nooks of rest 


Within a dungeon strong. 


Where the grave heron makes her nest ; 


Where night and day he pineth sore 


And wild cascades with hurrying roar. 


To hear the small birds' song. 


Like the sweet tumult of Lodore — 


And all afar through Christendom 


Lodore ! — that name recalls to me 


Thou'rt blamed for his thrall. 


Visions of stern sublimity. 


Even by the knights at thy right hand, 


And pastoral vales, and lonely rills, 


And the fair dames in the hall!" 


And shepherd people on the hills, — 


" He shall be free !" Prince Edward said, 


And more, — old names of men unknown 


"No longer on a name. 


Save on their mouldering church-yard stone, 


So fair and far renowned as mine 


Or to some mountain-chronicler 


Shall rest unknightly shame ! 


Who talketh of the days that were ; — 


Go fetch him from his dungeon deep, 


For, in gone years, they of my race 


Myself will do him right." 


Had, 'mong the hills, their dwelling-place, 


Eftsoons into that banquet room 


In an old mansion that doth stand 


Was brought the prisoned knight. 


As in the heart of iairy land. 


Quoth Edward, " Thou'rt a noble knight, 


Then mountains, lakes, and glorious skies 


Name now thy ransom fee. 


Lived in their children's memories. 


How small soe'er, by my good sword. 


There tended they, in evening hours, 


Thy ransom it shall be !" 


Their garderr's antiquated flowers, 


Du Guesclin in his prison garb 


And, on the Skiddaw mountain grey 


Stood proudly in the ring. 


They gambolled through the sunny day, — 


And named such ransom as would free 


Blest summer revellers ! and did float 


From thrall a captive king; 


On Keswick Lake their little boat!— 


Prince Edward's brow grew darkly red; 




" Sir Knight, I say thee nay ; 


Let Mammon's sons with visage lean. 


Such ransom as thou nam'st, by Heaven, 


Restless and vigilant, and keen, 


No Christian knight could pay ! 


Whose thought is but to buy and sell, 


Three paces stepped Du Guesclin on, 


In the hot, toiling city dwell ; 


And haughtier grew his brow. 


Give me to walk on mountains bare. 


Quoth he, "Is knighthood thus esteemed 


Give me to breathe the open air. 


By such a man as thou ! 


To hear the village-children's mirth. 


The kings of France and fair Castile 


To see the beauty of the earth — 


The sum would not gainsay. 


In wood and wild, by lake ond sea 


And if I lacked elsewhere the gold, 


To dwell with foot and spirit free! 


My ransom they would pay ; 



214 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



205 



I know a hundred Breton knighL=, 

All men of high degree, 
And each his old and fair domain 

Would sell to make me free; 
There's not a woman at her wheel 

Throughout this chivalrous land, 
That would not labour night and day 

To free me from thy hand." 
Prince Edward from the dais stepped down, 

" Give me thy hand !" said he, 
" Sir Knight, thou'rt brave as thou art proud. 

And thou honourest chivalrie, 
And therefore like thy chainless soul, 

Unransomed, thou art free!" 
Then burst forth plaudits long and loud. 

And they sate till set of sun, 
And the old knight said, as he poured the wine, 

" 'T was a fair deed nobly done." 

Next morning, on his gallant steed. 

With his own good sword and lance, 
Rode forward, from that castle-gate, 

The bravest man of France ; 
And the people, as he passed along, 

In the sunshine shouted free, 
"Du Guesclin hath great honour done 

To France and chivalrie !" 



THE HOUSEHOLD FESTIVAL. 

'T WAS when the harvest-moon came slowly up. 
Broad, red and glorious o'er dark groves of pine ; 

In the hushed eve, when closed the flow'rel's cup. 
And the blue grape hung dewy on the vine, 
Forth from a porch where tendrilled plants entwine, 

Weaving a shadowy bovver of odorous things, 
Rich voices came, telling that there were met 

Beauty and youth, and mirth whose buoyant wings 
Soaring aloft o'er thoughts that gloom and fret. 
Gave man release from care or lured him to forget. 

And, as the moon rose higher in the sky. 
Casting a mimic day on all around. 

Lighting dim garden paths, through branches high, 
That cast their chequered shadows on the ground ; 
Light maidens, dancing with elastic bound, 

Like fairy revellers, in one place were seen ; 
And gentle friends were slowly pacing where 

^he dark, thick laurels formed a bowery screen ; 
And merry children, like the moonlight fiiir, 
■ With their wild, pealing laughter filled the perfumed 
air. 

Another hour, — and in a lighted room 
Where glorious pictures lined the lofty wall. 

They sate in social ease ; — no brow of gloom. 
No saddened, dowmcasl eye, that might recall 
Sorrowful musing, dimmed the festival. 

It was in honour of a gallant youth 
Those friends were met, — the friends he dearest 
loved, — 

All wishing he were there — and well, in sooth, 



Might his grey father unto tears be moved, 
Listening his grateful praise, — his tears were un- 
reproved. 

Her bright eyes sparkling with delight and love, 
Told his young sister of his travel wide. 

Of pleasant sojourn in some palmy grove. 
And Indian cities in their gorgeous pride ; 
Of desert isles where savage tribes abide. 

And glorious shores and regions of old fame : 
Then were his trophies from all lands displayed. 

Belt, baracan, and bow of wondrous frame, 
High, nodding crest, and deadly battle blade. 
And birds of curious note in glittering plumes arrayed. 

And, in her joyful phrase, she told how he, 
Ere their next meeting, o'er the wave would come. 

Like a glad spirit, to partake their glee, 
And cast delight and interest round his home : 
Gaily she told, how sitting in that room 

When the next harvest-moon lit up the pane. 
He should, himself, his marvellous tales relate. 

— Alas! encircled by the Indian main. 
That night beneath a tamarind tree he sate, 
Heart-sick with thoughts of home and ponderings on 
his fate. 

The heavy sea broke thundering on the shore. 
The dark, dark night had gathered in the sky, 

And from tlie desert mountains came the roar 
Of ravening creatures, and a wild, shrill cry 
From the scared night-birds slowly wheeling by. — 

And there he lay, beneath the spreading tree. 
Feverish and faint, and over heart and brain 

Rushed burning love, and sense of misery, 
And wild, impatient grief, and longings vain 
Within his blessed home to be at rest again. 

Another year — and the relentless wave 
Had washed away the white bones from the shore ; - 

And mourning for his son, down to the grave 
Had gone the old man with his locks all hoar; — 
The household festival was held no more ; — 

And when the harvest-moon came forth again. 
O'er the dark pines, in red autumnal state. 

Her light fell streaming through the window-pane 
Of that old room, where his young si.ster sate 
With her down-drooped head, and heart all desolate. 



THE THREE AGES. 

How beautiful are ye. 

Age, Youth, and Infancy! 

She, with slovily tottering pace. 

She, with light and youthful grace, 

And the child with clustering locks; 

All, all are beautiful! 

For in them I can see. 

Thus pictured forth, a lesson that is full 

Of the strong interests of humanity. 

Childhood all sorrow mocks; 

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206 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It dwells in pleasant places; 

Sees ever-smiling faces ! 

Flowers, and fair butterflies, and pebbly brooks, 

These are its teachers and its lesson-books ! 

If chance a cloud come over it to-day, 

Before to-morrow it hath passed away. 

It has no troubling dreams ; 

No cogitations dark, no wily schemes ; 

It eounteth not the cost 

Of what its soul desires, with thoughtful trouble; 

Knows not how days are lost — 

How love is but a bubble ; 

Knows not an aching forehead, a tired brain ; 

]Vor the heart sickening with a hopeless pain ! 

Oh, happy infancy! 

Life's cares have small companionship with thee ! 

A child no more! a maiden now, 
A graceful maiden, with a gentle brow ; 
A cheek tinged lightly, and a dove-like eye ; 
And all hearts bless her, as she passes by ! 
Fair creature, in this morning of her youth, 
She is all love, she is ail truth ! 
She doubteth none ; she doth believe 
All true, for she can not deceive ! 
Dear maiden, thou must learn, ere long, 
That hope has but a Syren's song; 
That Love is not what he would swear; 
That thou must look before, behind — 
The gentlest need be most aware — 
A serpent 'mong the flowers is twined ! 
I mourn, sweet maiden, thou must learn 
Aught so ungracious, aught so stern ! 

Oh, youth ! how fair, how dear thou art ; 
How fairer yet thy truth of heart ! 
That guileless innocence, that clings 
Unto all pure, all gentle things ! 
Alas! that Time must take from thee 
Thy beautiful simplicity ! 

Age, leaning on its staff; with feeble limb. 

Grey hair, and vision dim. 

Doth backward turn its eye, 

And few and evil seem the days gone by ! 

Oh! venerable age! hast thou not proved all things, 

Love, Hope, and Promise fair. 

And seen them vanish into air. 

Like rainbows on a summer's eve! 

Riches unto themselves have taken wings ; 

Love flattered to deceive; 

And Hope has been a traitor unto thee ! 

And thou hast learned, by many a bitter tear, 

By days of weary sorrow, nights of fear. 

That all is vanity ! 

Yet, venerable age. 

Full of experience sage, 

Well may the good respect thee, and the wise ! 

For thou hast living faith. 

Triumphant over death. 

Which makes the future lovely to thine eyes ! 

Thou knowest that, ere long, 

'T will be made known to thee. 



Why virtue is so weak, why evil strong; 
Why love is sorrow, joy a mockery. 
And thus thou walkest on in cheerfulness, 
And the fair maiden and the child dost bless! 

Oh ! beautiful are ye. 

Age, Youth, and Infancy ! 

These are your names in Time, 

When the eye darkens and the cheek grows pale ; 

But in yon fairer clime. 

Where Life is not a melancholy tale. 

Where woe comes not, where never enters Death, 

Ye will have other names — Joy, Love, and Faith ! 



MOURNING ON EARTH. 

She lay down in her poverty. 
Toil-stricken, though so young ; 

And the words of human sorrow 
Fell trembling from her tongue. 

There were palace-houses round her ; 

And pomp and pride swept by 
The walls of that poor chamber. 

Where she lay down to die. 

Two were abiding with her. 

The lowly of the earth, — 
Her feeble, weeping sister. 

And she who gave her birth. 

She lay down in her poverty. 
Toil-stricken, though so young ; 

And the words of human sorrow 
Fell from her trembling tongue. 

"Oh, Lord, thick clouds of darkness 

About my soul are spread. 
And the waters of affliction 

Have gathered o'er my head ! 

" Yet what is life ? A desert. 
Whose cheering springs are dry, 

A weary, barren wilderness! — 
Still it is hard to die ! 

" For love, the clinging, deathless. 

Is with my life entwined ; 
And the yearning spirit doth rebel 

To leave the weak behind ! 

" Oh Saviour, who didst drain the dregs 

Of human woe and pain. 
In this, the fiercest trial-hour. 

My doubting soul sustain ! 

" I sink, I sink ! support me ; 

Deep waters round me roll! 
I fear ! I faint ! O Saviour, 

Sustain my sinking soul !" 



REJOICING IN HEAVEN. 

"Oh spirit, freed from bondage, 
Rejoice, thy work is done ! 

The weary world is 'neath thy feet, 
Thou brighter than the sun ! 

210 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



207 



" Arise, put on the garments 

Which the redeemed wore ! 
Now sorrow hath no part in thee, 

Thou sanctified from sin ! 

" Awaice and breathe the living air 

Of our celestial clime! 
Awake to love which knows no change, 

Thou, who hast done with time ! 

"Awake, lift up thy joyful eyes, 
See, all heaven's host appears ; 

And be thou glad exceedingly. 
Thou, who hast done with tears ! 

" Awake ! ascend ! Thou art not now 
With those of mortal birth, — 

The living God hath touch'd thy lips, 
Thou who hast done with earth !" 



THE TEMPLE OF JUCdERNAUT. 



This is the most celebrated and sacred temple in Hindostan, 
and was built about the year 1198, by Rajah Anonda Bheem 
Deb, at a cost of 500,000 pounds sterling. The principal en- 
trance is the Singha-Devar, or the " Lion-Gate," immedi- 
ately in front of which is a beautiful column dedicated to the 
Eun. 

The chief idol, called Juggernaut, is a huge unsightly figure 
of wood, bearing some distant resemblance to the human 
form: it is painted black, with a red mouth, and large red 
and white circles for eyes. 

The ceremony of drawing the car takes place in June, and 
it is calculated that about 200,000 pilgrims, three-fourths of 
them females, annually resort to this festival, of whom at least 
50,000 perish by sickness, hunger, and fatigue, and by volun- 
I tarily throwing themselves under its ponderous wheels. 



The winds are stirred with tumult — on the air 
Sound drum and trumpet, atabal and gong — 
Strong voices loud uplift a barbarous song. 

Vast is the gathering — while the priests declare 

The seven-headed god is passing there. 
On roll his chariot-wheels, while every roll 
From prostrate bodies crushes forth a soul; 

Rejoicing such last agony to bear. 
Such are thy creeds, O man ! when thou art given 

To thy own fearful nature — false and stern! 

What were we now, but that all-pitying Heaven 

Sent us a holier, purer faith to learn ? — 

Type of its message came the white-winged dove — 
What is the Christian's creed? — Faith, Hope and 
Love. 



HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. 

WH.4.T are they? gold and silver, 

Or what such ore can buy ? 
The priue of silken luxury; 

Rich robes of Tyrian dye ? 
Guests that come thronging in 

With lordly pomp and state ? 
Or thankless, liveried serving-men. 

To stand about the gate ? 

19 2C 



Or are they daintiest meats 

Sent up on silver fine ? 
Or golden, chased cups o'erbrimmed 

With rich Falernian wine ? 
Or parchments setting forth 

Broad lands our fathers held ; 
Parks for our deer ; ponds for our fish ; 

And woods that may be felled ? 

No, no, they are not these ! or else, 

God help the poor man's need ! 
Then, sitting 'mid his little ones. 

He would be poor indeed ! 
They are not these ! our household wealth 

Belongs not to degree ; 
It is the love within our souls — 

The children at our knee ! 

My heart is filled with gladness 

When I behold how fair. 
How bright, are rich men's children. 

With their thick golden hair ! 
For I know 'mid countless treasure, 

Gleaned from the east and west. 
These living, loving human things. 

Are still the rich man's best ! 

But my heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes. 

And a prayer is on ray tongue. 
When I see the poor man's children, 

The toiling, though the young. 
Gathering with sunburnt hands 

The dusty wayside flowers ! 
Alas! that pastime symbolleth 

Life's after, darker hours. 

My heart o'erfloweth to mine eyes. 

When I see the poor man stand, 
After his daily work is done. 

With children by the hand — 
And this, he kisses tenderly ; 

And that, sweet names doth call — 
For I know he has no treasure 

Like those dear children small ! 

Oh, children young, I bless ye. 

Ye keep such love alive ! 
And the home can ne'er be desolate. 

Where love has room to thrive ! 
Oh, precious household treasures. 

Life's sweetest, holiest claim — 
The Saviour blessed ye while on earth, — 

I bless ye in His name ! 



THE MOSQUE OF SULTAN ACHMET. 

AT CONSTANTINOPLE. 

Young Achmet the Sultan ariseth to-day, 
The strength of his sickness hath passed away ; 
No longer he feareth the might of his foes. 
Nor is there aught living to mar his repose. 
217 



208 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Young Achmet the Sultan with power hath crowned 

him, 
And his will is the fate of the slaves that surround him ; 
There is gold for his telling, there 's pomp to beguile, 
And beauty that livelh alone in his smile. 

What aileth him then that he sitteth alone. 
And breaketh the stillness of night with his groan ? 
There is fear in his soul which no pride can gainsay ; 
There is blood on his hand which will not pass away I 

* I have sinned," said young Achmet, " but I will 

atone 
For my sin by erecting a temple of stone ; 
E'en the mosque of the Prophet at Mecca shall yield. 
And Santa Sophia, to this I will build ! 

" Four pillars gigantic the whole shall uphold. 
With gates of brass, glorious and cosily as gold ; 
And above shall domes, semidomes, cupolas rise, 
With six slender minarets piercing the skies !" 

The Mufti came up to young Achmet with speed, 
Saying, " Sultan, what is it that thou hast decreed ? 
The mosque of the Prophet, thou know'st, hath but 

f()ur — 
Would'st thou raise on this temple two minarets 

more!" 

"Go, fetch in the Hadjee!" the Sultan replied, 
" Who came in from Mecca but last eventide ! — 
Now tell us the minarets' number," said he, 
" Of the great mosque at Mecca — twice two, or 
twice three ?" 

The Hadjee bowed low, and he said he could fix 
Without question the number ; the number was six; 
He had counted them oi'ten, morn, noonday, and night. 
Six tall, slender minarets piercing the light .' 

The Mufti arose in great anger, and swore 
By his beard, that the minarets only were four: 
He had seen them himself; he had counted them oft; 
Four crescent-lipped minarets shooting aloft! 

The young Sultan Achmet laughed loud, and replied, 
" That a band of good pilgrims the truth should de- 
cide ;" 
And as they reported, so soothly should be 
His minarets' number — twice two, or twice three!* 



* The Sultan Achmet, during the time of the caravan's 
march, had obtained two new minarets to be added to the 
original four of the mosque at Mecca, so that he accomphshed 
his design of crowning his own erection with six minarets, 
without oifending the piety of the true Mussulmans. So eager 
was he in the building of his mosque, that for an hour every 
Friday, after prayers, he laboured with his own hands, in 
order to stimulate the workmen by his own example. It is a 
remarkable fact, that the final extirpation of the janissaries, 
who had been the personal enemies of the Sultan Achmet, 
two centuries afterwards was effected in this mosque. 

The reforming Sultan Mahmoud, who had determined on 
counteracting the influence of the janissaries, had ordered the 
sandjak- sheriff , or sacred standard of the Prophet, an object 
exhibited only on the most solemn and important occasions, 
to be unfolded with great pomp in the mosque of Achmet. 
No true Mussulman, to whom this was told, dared to resist 
the summons ; thousands, and tens of thousands, rushed to 
the temple. The banner was displayed from the lofty pulpit 
of the Imautn and th« Sultan exhorted the people, by the 



Twelve months and a day went the slow caravan 
O'er the desert, the Mufti still placed in the van ; 
And still every day by the prophet he swore. 
That at Mecca the minarets only were four! 

At length the day came when the pilgrims should spy 
At distance the minarets piercing the sky ; 
The Mufti rode first on a fleet-footed steed, 
And the pilgrims pressed after with new-wakened 
speed. 

Why standeth the Mufti like one all aghast ! 
What vision of terror before him hath passed ! 
He seeth the mosque — he hath counted them o'er — 
" Allah Keriro ! six minarets ! — Once there were four!" 



THE SOURCE OF THE JUMNA. 



" By dint of untiring perseverance, we had at last reached 
the confines of eternal snow. We found the river gliding un- 
der arches of ice. The most holy spot is upon the left bank, 
where a mass of quartz and silicious schist rook sends forth 
five hot springs into the bed of the river, which b lil and bub- 
ble at a furious rate. The height of the snow-bed at Jumno- 
tree, is about ten thousand feet." 



Oh for some old mystery ! 

Something that we could not know — 
Somethmg that we could not fiithora, 

As it was long time ago! 
Marvels strange have ceased to be — 
There is now no mystery! 

There were islands in the ocean, 

Once upon a glorious time. 
Fair, Hesperian islands blooming 

In a golden clime ! 
Rich and bright beyond compare, 
'Mid the waves, we know not where! 

There were cyclops once, and giants; 

There were unicorns of old ; 
There were magic carbuncles, 

And cities paved with gold; 
How the world has changed since then! 
When will wonders come again! 

Once there was a mystery 

In a mighty river's springs ; 
Once, the cloudy tops of mountains 

Veiled mysterious things! 
Wondrous pleasant did it seem, 
Of the vast and veiled to dream ! 

Once, together side by side 
Sat the father and the child, 

Telling by the glimmering firelight. 
Histories strange and wild! 

But philosophy and art 

Thrust the child and man apart. 



faith they owed the Prophet, to rally round the sacred stand- 
ard. A deep murmur of assent filled the dome, all fell pros- 
trate in confirmation of their resolve, and from that moment 
the cause of the janissaries became desperate. 
218 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



209 



Great Philosophy and Art! 

This is now the wondrous pair 
That have compassed earth and ocean, 

That have travelled air! 
That with outstretched, pitiless arm 
Have dispersed each fairy charm ! 

Have dissolved the carbuncle ; 

Turned the cities' gold to dust; 
Slain the unicorns and giants; 

Ta'en our ancient trust! 
And that even now are gone 
To the realms of Presler John ! 

They will ransack all the land ; 

Soar above, and peep below; 
They will rend the rocks asunder; 

Melt the eternal snow; 
Not a stone unturn'd will leave 
Each old mystery to unweave! 

They have been where ne'er before 
Human foot hath ever trod ; 

They have found the real cradle 
Of the Hindoo's river-god! 

Jumna's now and Ganges' springs 

Are no longer sacred things! 

Oh for some old mystery; 

Something that we could not know; 
Something that we could not fathom, 

As it was long time ago ! 
Pray, ye disenchanting pair, 
Some old pleasant mystery spare! 



THE BARON'S DAUGHTER. 

THE LAY OF A LANDLESS POET. 

Lovely Lady Madeline! 

High-born Lady Madeline, 
What a heavenly dream had I 

'Neath the moon but yester-e'en! 

In thy gracious beauty bright. 
In thy bower I saw thee stand, 

Looking from its casement out. 
With my verses in thy hand. 

Birds were singing all around thee. 
Flowers were blooming 'neath the wall, 

And from out the garden alleys 
Chimed the silvery fountain's fall. 

But thy thoughts were not of these; 

Loveliest Lady Madeline, 
Would that, in that blessed hour, 

I the folded scroll had been! 

Madeline, thy race is proud. 
Fierce thy brethren, stern thy sire; 

And thy lady-mother's scorn 
Withereth like consuming fire. 



How is it, sweet Madeline, 
That thou art so kind of cheer, 

That the lowliest in the house 
Thinks of thee with love, not fear. 

Even the sour old gardener, 
Through the winter's iciest hours, 

Works with cheerful-hearted will 
If it be to tend thy flowers. 

As for me — Oh, Madeline, 

Though thy brethren fierce and high 
Scarce would deign to speak my name, 

'T would, for thee, be heaven to die! 

Madeline, my love is madness! 

How should I aspire unto thee ; 
How should I, the lowly-born. 

Find fit words to woo thee ! 

Every goodly chamber beareth 
Proudly on its pictured wall. 

Lords and ladies of renown, 
Richly robed, and noble all. 

Not a daughter of thy house 
But did mate in her degree ; 

'Twas for love I learned by rote. 
Long years pa.st, thy pedigree! 

And in those old chronicles. 
Which the chaplain bade me read, 

Not a page, but of thy line 
Telleth some heroic deed. 

And within the chancel aisle, 

'Neath their banners once blood-dyed. 

Lie the noble of thy house. 
In their marble, side by side. 

As for me — my father lieth 
In the village churchyard-ground, 

And upon his lowly head-stone 
Only may his name be found. 

What am I, that I should love 
One like thee, high Madeline! 

1, a nameless man and poor, 
Sprung of kindred mean. 

Without houses, without lands. 
Without bags of goodly gold ; 

What have I to give pretence 
To my wishes wild and bold ! 

What have I ? Oh, Madeline, 
Small things to the poor are great ; 

Mine own heart and soul have made 
The wealth of mine estate. 

Walking 'neath the stars at even. 
Walking 'neath the summer's noon; 

Spring's first leaves of tender green. 
And fair flowers sweet and boon : 

These, the common things of earth, 
But, more, our human kind ; 

The silent suffering of the heart; 
The mystery of mind : 

219 



210 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The lowly lot of peasant folk. 
Their humblest hopes and fears ; 

The pale cheek of a woman, 
And even children's tears: 

All circumstance of mortal life. 

The lowly though it be; 
And pure thought garnered in the soul, 

The wealth of poesy — 
Have made me, high-born Madeline, 

Not quite unworthy theei 



SMYRNA. 

A STREET in Smyrna ! Let me think - 
Of Smyrna nought I know. 

Except that Homer was a child 
In Smyrna long ago ! 

I care not although seven towns 

Contended for his birth, 
Smyrna shall bear the palm away 

From all the towns of earth ! 

And who shall say that when a boy 
He played not in this street, 

Or sat beside his mother's door 
And sung his ballads sweet? 

Yes, it was in this very street. 
Where stands that open door, 

Critheis sat, and spun for bread — 
The poet's mother poor. 

And there her boy sat at her side; 

" And tell me more," said he, 
" Sweet mother, of the wars of Troy — 

They please me mightily ! 

" And tell me of the godlike man, 

Ulysses and his woes. 
For I love the tale, and seem to be 

With him where'er he goes !" 

And so Critheis told the tale 

Unto her sightless boy. 
About Ulysses and his woes, 

And of the wars of Troy. 

There sat she all the day and spun; 

And Phemius on his way, 
Morning and night unto his school 

Beheld them every day. 

The mother she was meek and young; 

The boy was blind ; but ne'er 
Had Phemis 'mid his scholars seen 

A child so wondrous fair: 
With such a glorious countenance ; 

With such a thoughtful air. 

And thus the mother and the boy, 

Became a pleasant thought. 
In the good heart of Phemius 

The while his school he taught. 



And even on his homeward way 
He stayed his willing feet, 

To hear the boy a lesson say. 
Or sing his ballads sweet. 

Oh, city by the Lesbian sea, 
Great glory 'tis to know 

That Homer sang within thy street 
Some thousand years ago ! 



OLIVER CROMWELL. 

The offspring of a troubled time ; 
The appointed human instrument 
Of mighty change ; the agent sent 

To work heaven's will, in whom even crime 
Becomes to good subservient. 
Such wert thou, Cromwell, in thy day. 

The needful scourge, perhaps no less 

The slave of thine own worldliness, 
But still a mightier, loftier sway 
Meted the work that on thee lay. 

Thou wert of those who, in the turn 

Of a great nation's fate, arise. 
Her scorpion-whip, her teachers stern, 
From whom she hath, in blood, to learn. 

Through suffering, to be wise ! 
Man of a million, not alone 

For thine own will, thyself to please, 

Gave God unto thy hand the keys 
Of empire ; made the ancient throne 
Of kings thy servile stepping-stone. 

A higher power controUeth man 

Than his own self; his direst deed 
Assisteth the benignant plan 
Of the Supreme ; his fiercest ban, 

Of afler-mercy is the seed ! 
We are not what we were before, 

The melancholy monarch fell. 

And Cromwell's spirit, like a spell. 
Works at the nation's heart. Restore, 
O God, wilhout their crime, those steadfast souls 
once morel 



MARSHAL SOULT. 

THE MEETING OF THE WARRIORS — SOULT AND 
WELLINGTON. 

They met amid the bloody fields of Spain, 
When the swart peasant left his reaping-hook, 
And, heedless of the ripe ungarnered grain, 
A sharper weapon in his right-hand took. 
For other harvests; when the green hills shook 
With battle's thunder, and the carnage flood 
Swelled lo a river many a mountain brook. 
There met they, and like gods of battle stood, 
Each girt with armed hosts, and all athirst for blood ! 
320 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



211 



Again they met — 't was on a summer's day, 
And half a million people with them met, 
Not girt with arms in slaughterous array, 
With crimson banners torn, and swords blood-wet ; 
But each in his high place of honour set. 
When all the bells of joyous London rung ; 
When window, balcon, roof, and parapet 
Were thronged with people, and with garlands 
hung, 
And one "God save the Queen!" pealed from the 
nation's tongue ! 

There met they; and like brethren, side by side, 
Swelled the glad pomp of that great jubilee. 
— Oh proudest triumph of that day of pride. 
When met the nation's ancient chivalry. 
With ceremonial old, to reverence thee. 
Thou young and favoured Queen of many lands — 
That every neighbour-land and every sea 
With an according gladness clapped their hands. 
And, that those mighty warriors met with sheathed 
brands ! 



THE VALLEY OF THE SWEET WATERS. 



" Sweet Waters" does not imply that they are distinguished 
by any remarkable sweetness of taste, but simply that they 
are not salt. Two rivulets are so named by the Franks, one 
in Europe, and the other in Asia: their banks are rich and 
verdant, enammelled with flowers, and are places of resort, 
where gay and festive parties meet for recreation. At these 
pic-nics, even the members of a family never mix together. 
The unsocial jealousy of a Turk so separates the sexes, that 
the father, husband, and brother are never seen in the same 
groups with their female relatives. The women assemble on 
one side round the fountain, and the men on the other. 



All cities have their outlets of delight; 

We have our Greenwich, Richmond, Harapstead, 

Harrow, 
To appease the popular rural appetite. 
For which the crowded city is too narrow; 
Thither the people throng, in dust's despite, 
Of happiness to suck the very marrow ; 
Thither throng rich and poor, the grave, the merry, 
In steam-boat, omnibus, and cab, and wherry. 

The streets are stifling, bustling, noisy, dry ; 
Hot are the pavements as an oven-floor. 
Dingy-red brick grows tiresome to the eye ; 
The bell, the knocker, and the green street-door 
The weary senses quickly satisfy ; 
And then we send our gadding fancy o'er 
Rich golden meadows deep in summer grass. 
To leafy trees, and rivers smooth as glass. 

And then we rush into the popular stream. 
And find ourselves with very prompt good-will. 
Borne down the silvery Thames on wings of steam. 
Or dragged by horses up the Hampstead hill. 
The Turkish people, solemn as they seem, 
Of the dense city likewise get their fill. 
And sally forth, athirst for flowers and trees, 
To drain the cup of pleasure to the lees. 
19* 



Unto the Valley of Sweet Waters bound. 
Sails forth, brim-full of men, the smart caique ; 
And in their curtain'd chariots' depth profound 
The women go in crowds, mouth, brow, and cheek 
In muslin veil and shrouding yashmac wound : 
'Tis wonderful how they can breathe or speak ! 
But 'tis the mode; and forth the chariot goes, 
Guarded by negroes, drawn by buflfaloes. 

Although the cups of yaourf may be full. 
Although each soul for pleasure deeply delves, 
A Turkish pic-nic must be rather dull ; 
And these poor ladies, grouped in tens and twelves, 
Can only tiny sprigs of pleasure cull, 
Muffled and cushioned, silting by themselves. 
Especially when just at hand they see 
The men who might be talking pleasantly. 

Well, Mahmoud Second loveth reformation. 
He hath done mighty wonders in his day ; 
He slew the standing army of his nation, 
He threw his soldiers' turbans all away ; 
Perchance he '11 make another innovation — 
The best of all ! — and, if he like, he may — 
Ordain that henceforth, in the summer weather. 
Women and men may sit and talk together. 



THE BURIAL-GROUND AT SIDON. 



"The burial ground, with the old ruin, supposed to be the 
castle of Louis IX., is without the town: the tall trees cast 
their shadow on the sepulchres, some fallen and ruined, others 
newly whited and gilt, and covered with sentences in tho 
Turkish character, the head-stones usually presenting a turban 
on a pedestal. Several women had come to mourn over the 
graves of their relatives, in while cloaks and veils that envel- 
oped them from head to foot: they mostly mourned in silence, 
and knelt on the steps of the tomb, or among the wild flowers 
which grew rank on the soil. The morning light fell partially 
on the sepulchres, and on the broken towers of the ancient 
castle ; but the greater part of the thickly-peopled cemetery 
was still in gloom — the gloom which the Orientals love. They 
do not like to come to the tombs in ibe glare of day: early 
morn and evening are the favourite seasons, especially the 
latter. This Burial-ground of Sidon is one of the most pictu- 
resque on the coast of Syria. The ruin, of Louis, tells, like 
the sepulchres, that this life's hope and pride is as " a tale that 
is told." When the moon is on its towers, on the trees, and 
tombs beneath, and on the white figures that slowly move to 
and fro, the scene is solemn, and cannot be forgotten." 



The dead are everywhere ! 
The mountain-side; the plain; the woods profound; 
All the wide earth — the fertile and the fair. 

Is one vast burial-ground ! 

Within the populous street ; 
In solitary homes ; in places high ; 
In pleasure-domes where pomp and luxury meet. 

Men bow themselves to die. 

The old man at his door ; 
The un weaned child murmuring its wordless song; 
The bondman and the free; the rich, the poor ; 

All, all to death belong! 

221 



212 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The sunlight gilds the walls 
Of kingly sepulchres enwrought with brass ; 
And the long shadow of the cypress falls 

Athwart the common grass. 

The living of gone time 
Builded their glorious cities by the sea, 
And awful in their greatness sat sublime, 

As if no change could be. 

There was the eloquent tongue ; 
The poet's heart ; the sage's soul was there ; 
And loving women with their children young, 

The fiiithful and the fair. 

They were, but they are not ; 
Suns rose and set, and earth put on her bloom, 
Whilst man, submitting to the common lot, 

Went down into the tomb. 

And still amid the wrecks 
Of mighty generations passed away. 
Earth's boonest growth, the fragrant wild-flower, 
decks 

The tombs of yesterday. 

And in the twilight deep. 
Go veiled women forth, like her who went, 
Sisters of Lazarus, to the grave to weep 

To breathe the low lament. 

The dead are everywhere! 
Where'er is love, or tenderness, or faith ; 
Where'er is power, pomp, pleasure, pride ; where'er 

Life is or was, is death! 



THE ARRIVAL. 

Scene.— A Castle in the Scotch Highlands. 

Time Jive o'clock in the afternoon. — Louisa and 
Cecilia iji morning dresses. 

LOUISA. 

Of what availeth blonde and lace 
Here in this melancholy place! 
My pearls have never seen the day ; 
Your emeralds they are stowed away ; 
And my white satin ! I declare, it 
Will be quite passe ere I wear it! 

I can't conceive whate'er possessed 
Papa to take this eagle's nest. 
Perched among mountains bleak and drear, 
Without a decent neighbour near ! 
I wonder more what men can find 
So vastly suited to their mind, 
In riding o'er those moorlands dreary. 
Through wild ravines so black and eerie ; 
Past highland huts of turf and stone, 
Whence peeps forth many a withered crone ; 
Through spongy bog, o'er mountains high, 
To shoot at grouse that ihey might buy ! 

CECILIA. 

I 'm sure our English country-seat 
Was quite enough of a retreat ; 



A solitary grand old hall. 
Shut up within its high park-wall ! 
And there, at least, was no despair 
Our robes of price too good to wear. 

LOUISA. 

No, what with Henry's friend Sir John, 

And the young Lord of Erlington, 

And Lady Peter's guests, and all 

The people from Combe-Merival, 

And Captain Matthews and his bride. 

And all our London friends beside. 

One ne'er pined for a human face, 

Nor mourned o'er unsunned pearls and lace ! 

But I protest it was unkind. 
To bring Court-Aspley back to mind. 
With guests for ever on the floor, — 
Even poor Miss Weld I now adore ! 
I can't think how they spend their lives — 
These dull Scotch nobles and their wives — 
The Macnamara and Mackay ! 

Ah ! I 'd a dream at break of day. 
Nor hath the charm yet passed away ! — 
Why do you smile, sweet sister, say ? 

CECILIA. 

I too had dreams — but, what is better, 
I even now have had a letter ! 

LOUISA. 

A letter ! and from whom and whence ? 

CECILIA. 

You '11 see the writer two hours hence ! 

LOUISA. 

Ah, by your blush I know ! — Sir John ! 

CECILIA. 

And with him comes — 

LOUISA. 

Lord Erlington? 

CECILIA. 

The very same! 

LOUISA. 

Oh joyful day ! 

CECILIA. 

But let us dress ; time wears away ; 
In two hours' time, or even less, 
They will be here ! 

LOUISA. 

Ah, let us dress! 
Two hours later — LoviSA. and Cecilia dressed. 

LOUISA. 

You wear no ornaments to-night. 
Not even a ring ! — well, you are right, - 
You know his taste ; — you can't do better 
Than please a lover to the letter. 

CECILIA. 

Lovers we satisfy -with ease, 
'T is husbands that are hard to please. 
But truce to thought! You look your best. 
Come when they will, you 're sweetly drest; 
Marshall has used her utmost care ; 
How well those pearls become your hair! 
But let us to the turret-stair. 
We get a glorious prospect there ! 
212 






MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



213 



LOUISA. 

One little glimpse sufRceth me, 
1 see the view I wish to see, 
Two horsemen riding merrily ! 

CECILIA. 

'Tis but my ihther and my brother! 
Look sister, 't is indeed none other ! 

LOUISA. 

Now may your beauty fair befall ! 
Just look below the castle- wall ; 
Who rides bare-headed? 

CECILIA. 

'T is Sir John, 
And by his side Lord Erlington ! 

LOUISA. 

And now I hear my father's laughter, 
As he and Henry gallop after ! 



AN ENGLISH GRAVE AT MUSSOOREE. 



Mussooree, the site of a station which is now one of the chief 
resorts of the visiters from the plains, stands at an elevation 
of seven thousand five hundred feet above the level of the sea, 
and is situated on the southern face of the ridge called the 
Landour Range, and overlooking the village of that name, 
which has been chosen for the establishment of a military 
sanitarium, for those officers and privates belonging to the 
Bengal army, who have lost their health in the plains. 

Nothing can be imagined more delicious to an invalid, half 
dying under the burning sun of India, than the being removed 
into the fine, bracing, and cool atmosphere of this station. 
All round him are the most sublime natural objects — the most 
Stupendous rivers and mountains of the world, but all subdued 
into a character of astonishing beauty ; while the growth of 
the hills, and of the very ground under his feet, must transport 
Lira back into his native Britain. 



" Tell me about my son, dear friend, for I can bear 

to know. 
Now that my heart is stayed by prayer, that history 

of woe I 
But whence was it, of seven sons, all men of strength 

and pride. 
This only one — the gentlest one — forsook his mother's 

side ! 

" That he in whom a flower, a star, a love-inspired 
word, 

The poet's heart, all tenderness, even from his boy- 
hood stirred ; 

Who was my dearest counsellor, in his dead father's 
place ; 

Who was a daughter unto me, who ne'er did one 
embrace. 

" How was it that he only left his home, his native 

land. 
He only, kindest, gentlest, and youngest of my 

band ? 
That he whom I had looked to close mine eyes — to 

lay me low. 
Died first, and far away ! Oh God, thy counsels who 

shall know ! 



" But murmuring thus, I sin ! Dear friend, forgive a 
mother's grief, 

And tell me of my son ; thy words will bring assured 
relief: 

Tell me of each minutest look — even of his suffer- 
ings tell, 

My heart takes comfort from thy voice, for thou didst 
love him well !" 

"I loved hira well, oh, passing well! all he had 

been to thee — 
Friend, counsellor, the spirit's life — so had he been 

to me! 
Yet murmur not, thou broken heart, our vision fails 

to show 
The scope of that mysterious good whose base is 

human woe ! 

"Thy best-beloved murmured not, his faith was 

never dim. 
And that strong love which was his life, sprang 

everywhere for him. 
We saw him droop, and many a one, else scarce to 

love beguiled. 
Watched him, as tender parents watch a favourite 

drooping child. 

" For the hot plains where he had lain, by cureless 

wounds oppressed. 
We bore him to the northern hills, to a sweet land 

of rest. 
Oh, what a joy it was to hipa to feel the cool winds 

blow. 
To see the golden morning light array the peaks of 

snow! 

" What joy to see familiar things where'er his foot- 
steps trod ; 

The oak-tree in the mountain-cleft ; the daisy on the 
sod ; 

The primrose and the violet; the green moss of the 
rill; 

The crimson wild-briar rose, and the strawberry of 
the hill! 

" How often these sweet living flowers were bathed 

in blissful tears. 
For then his loving spirit drank the joy of bygone 

years ; 
And sitting 'mong those giant hills, his boyhood round 

him lay — 
That sunny time of careless peace, so long since past 

away. 

" He told me of his English home ; I knew it well 
before ; 

Mine eyes had seen its trees, or ere my shadow 
crossed the door ; 

The very sun-dial on the green, I knew its face 
again ; 

And this small summer parlour with its jasmine- 
wreathed pane. 

" And thou ! all thou hadst been to him, he told me ; 

bade me seek 
Thy face, and to thy broken heart dear words of 

comfort speak : 

233 



314 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Oh, mother of the blessed dead, weep not ; sweet 

thoughts of thee, 
Like ministering angels at the last, the joyous soul 

set free ! 

" Oh, mother of the dead, weep not as if that far-off 

grave 
Possessed thy spirit's best beloved — 'thy beautiful, 

thy brave ;' 
The gifted, living soul lies not beneath that Eastern 

sod. 
All thou hast cherished liveth still, and ealleth thee 

to God !" 



THE ODALIQUE. 

THE FAVOURITE OF THE HAREM. 

Large the eye, and dark as night; 
Smooth the skin, as ivory white ; 
Small Ihe foot, and fair as snow ; 
Rich the voice, yet soft and low; 
White the neck, and round the arm ; 
Small the hand, and soft and warm ; 
Red the lip, and fair the cheek 
Of the favourite Odalique ! 

Let her robes be silks and gold. 
Round her waist the cashmere fold ; 
Let her velvet boddice shine 
With the treasures of the mine ; 
Let her turban, pearl-inlaced. 
On her queenly brow be placed; 
And her ivory finger-tips 
Be rosy as her rosebud lips. 

In the harem's brightest room. 
Hung with silks of Iran's loom, 
Breathing odours rich as those 
Of the summer's sunniest rose ; 
Silken carpets 'neath her tread. 
Arabesques above her head. 
One of four she lingers there. 
Fairest far where all are fair. 

Odalique, the years were few 
Which thy blooming childhood knew 
In the vales Circassian, 
Ere thy troubled life began! 
Scarcely wert thou ten years old 
Ere to strangers thou wert sold ; 
Parted from thy willing mother. 
Parted from thy shepherd brother, 
Parted from thy sisters twain. 
With no hope to meet again ! 

Months went on, and years came by, 

And the tear had left thine eye ; 

Grief was gone, save what but lent 

To thy beauty sentiment: 

And thy laughter might be heard 

Joyous as a singing-bird ; 

And thy rich voice keeping time 

To the zebec's merry chime. 



Wherefore this? for thou wert still 
Slave unto another's will. 
Chosen for eye, and lip, and cheek, 
Not the wife, but Odahque! 
Wherefore then the joyous measure 
Of thy heart's unceasing pleasure ? 
Wherefore then the love that lies 
In thy bright but serious eyes ? 
And the voice whose lightest word 
Is like soul-touched music heard! 
Wherefore this? thou art but still 
Slave unto a master's will! 

This it is that maketh thee 

Beautiful exceedingly — 

That thy woman's heart pines not 

With an unpartaken lot; 

That the one thy love doth bless 

Truly loveth thee no less ! 

This it is that makes thy hours 

Like a sunny path of flowers ! 

That in eye and brow doth speak. 

Thou beloved Odalique ! 



THE TOMB OF ST. GEORGE. 



"This romantic spot is on the route from Beirout to Tripoli, 
in the bay of Kesrouan, the shores of which display an exqui- 
site verdure, cultivation, and cheerfulness; the villages and 
convents, one situated above another up the declivities, have 
a most romantic appearance. This strange excavation ap- 
pears to have been once a chapel, and is commonly called the 
Tomb of St. George, our tutelar saint, whose combat with 
the dragon is said to have taken place at no great distance. 
On the opposite side of the bay is a Roman arch, and a beau- 
tiful rocky promontory. This spot is between Nahr-el-kelb 
and Batroun. The villages on the hills are neatly built, all 
flat-roofed, with little latticed windows; two or three of the 
larger edifices are convents, with a pleasant aspect towards 
the sea. each having its garden and vineyard : the soil is very 
fruitful. In the hiils in the interior of Asia Minor, the rocka 
are not unfrequently excavated into a kind of chambers, an- 
ciently sepulchral, but now inhabited by peasants and shep- 
herds, and which otter to the traveller a warmer shelter than 
a ruined khan; the woods supply a good fire, and neiiher 
wind nor rain find a passage. Many of these rocks, pierced 
with ancient catacombs, present, at a small distance, the 
exact appearance of towers and castles : the people, as in the 
time of Job, " embrace the caverns of the rock for shelter, 
and dwell in the cliff's of the valley, fleeing into the wilderness 
desolate and waste." 



The wondrous days of old romance 
Like summer flowers are fled ; 

Their mighty men; their lovely dames; 
Their minstrels all are dead I 

The ancient times are gone indeed ; 

And where their forests grew 
The corn waves green, and busy towns 

Are thronged with people new. 

Tintagel is a heap of stone ; 

And where Caerleon lay 
We know not, all beside its name 

Hath passed from earth away. 
224 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



215 



Gone are the knights of Italy ; 

The paladins of Spain ; 
And brave king Arthur in the dust, 

Lies low as Charlemagne. 

Sir Bevis and Sir Lancelot, 

In England or in I^ance, 
Would meet with no adventure now 

Worth lifting of the lance. 

Throughout the land of Libya 
Were good St. George to speed, 

No fair king's daughter would he find, 
From dragons to be freed. 

The Guys of Warwick all are dead. 

Or if they hnger still. 
No brave achievements they perform, 

No dire dun-cows they kill. 

The breast-plates and the caps of steel, 
'Mongst common things are laid ,• 

Even Wallace's two-handed sword 
Is now a rusty blade. 

The earth is not what once it was; 

Its caves and castles strong ; 
Its monsters and iis mighty men 

Live but in ancient song! 

Oh! wondrous days of old romance, 

How pleasant do ye seem; 
For sunlit hours in summer bowers, 

For winter-nights a theme ! 

How have I loved from childhood's years 

To call to life again 
Brave prince, and paladin, and peer, 

And those Caerleon men! 

To see the steeds whereon they rode. 

It was a goodly sight; 
Such horses are not now-a-days, 

So coal-black and so white! 

Oh, 'twas a wondrous pleasant thing. 

When I was but a child. 
To live in those old times, to meet 

Adventure strange and witd! 

And even still the charm is strong; 

But 'tis not now as then. 
For I see the tombs wherein they lie. 

And not the living men! 



VESPERS IN THE CAPELLA REALE. 

1282. 

" T WAS on the Easter Monday, in the evening, 
After the Sabbath of the Saviour's rising — 
Twelve hundred years, and eighty years and two. 
From this same Easter Monday — that at vespers, 
' The blessed Saviour, who had not ascended 
Yet to the Father, walked upon the sea-shore. 
2D 



There met he six of his forlorn disciples, 

Who, spirit-crushed and heart-sore, had that even 

Gone out a-fishing. With them went the Master. 

— Oh, love surpassing human understanding ! 

Oh, Friend, Instructor, Comforter, and Saviour, 

Thou didst that night, when heaven was opened for 

thee, 
When angels and archangels were awaiting 
Thy coming to the Father, — with thy children, 
Thy mourning, desolate, heart-broken children. 
Yet go a-fishing ! 

" Friends, as was the Lord then, 
Full of sweet love and pity for the afflicted. 
So is he still ! He pitieth all our sorrows ; 
He knoweth all our inward tribulations ! 
Ye who have trouble, call upon the Saviour ! 
Ye who are hopeless, fearful, or afflicted 
In mind or body, call upon the Saviour! 
Oh, all of ye, and I, for we are sinners, 
Let us bow down and call upon the Saviour! 
Oh Guide, oh Friend, oh crucified Lord Jesus, 
Be with us, all of us, now and for ever !" 

Such, in the royal chapel of Palermo, 
Such was the sermon on that Easter Monday 
Whereon the bloody Pedro, thence the Cruel, 
Ordained at the holy time of vespers 
To slay eight thousand Christian worshippers ! 

Low bent the crowd within the royal chapel. 
White-headed men, mothers, and little children, 
To bless the Lord ! Even then the armed ruffians 
Entered the holy place, and the white marble 
Ran down with streams of blood ! 



NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 



Thia town has the distinguished honour of being the birth- 
place of Lords Eldon and Stowell, who were also both edu- 
cated at its grammar-school. The eighth anniversary of the 
British Association for the Advancement of Science was held 
here during the autumn of 1838. On that occasion Dr. Buck- 
land, referring to the many noble literary and scientific insti- 
tutions which now adorn the place, remarked, that " t\vt'n!y- 
five years ago he was in Newcastle, and tjie Literary and 
Philosophical Society was the only instiuuion of a literary or 
scientific character ; but in subsequent years many other so- 
cieties had sprung up. It was in the recollection of persons 
now living, that bolore any of these societies existed in New- 
castle, cock-fighting, and bull and bear baiting, were the re- 
creations of the inhabitants ; but in this latter day, how great 
a change ! In the former period, Newcastle was chiefly 
famous as the centre whence radiated physical heat, and for 
its transcendent grindstones, which were celebrated from China 
to Peru : but now it gave out to afar, mental light and heal — 
and was an intellectual whetstone for the minds of rauu." 



A Cily-Slreet. 

I LOVE the fields, the woods, the streams, 
The wild-flowers fresh and sweet, 

And yet I love no less than these. 
The crowded city-street; 

For haunts of man, where'er they be, 

Awake my deepest sympathy. 

225 



216 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I see within the city-street 

Life's most extreme estates, 
The gorgeous domes of palaces ; 

The prison's doleful grates; 
The hearths by household virtues blest, 
The dens that are the serpent's nest. 

I see the rich man, proudly fed 
And richly clothed, pass by; 

I see the shivering, homeless wretch. 
With hunger in his eye; 

For life's severest contrasts meet 

For ever in the city-street! 

And lofty, princely palaces — 

What dreary deeds of woe, 
What untold, mortal agonies 

Their arras chambers know! 
Yet is without all smooth and fair. 
As heaven's blue dome of summer air! 

And even the portliest citizen. 

Within his doors doth hide 
Some household grief, some secret care, 

From all the world beside: 
It ever was, it must be so, 
For human heritage is woe! 

Hence is it that a city-street 
Can deepest thought impart, 

For all its people, high and low, 
Are kindred to my heart; 

And with a yearning love I share 

In all their joy, their pain, their care ! 



VIEW NEAR DEOBUN, AMONG THE 
HIMALAYAS. 

A SUMMER DAY-DREAM. 

I SIT 'mid flowery meadows, 

I list the cuckoo's cry ; 
I see the oak-tree shadows 

Athwart the green grass lie. 

Hard by, a little river 

Runs shimmering in the sheen; 
And silvery aspens quiver 

Along its margent green. 

I hear the warbling linnet; 

The wild bee humming round; 
And every passing minute 

Gives some sweet English sound. 

I see in green nooks pleasant 
Small children at their play; 

And many a cheerful peasant 
That toileth all the day. 

'Tis English all! birds singing. 
Cool shadows, flowers, and rills; 

And the village-bells' low ringing 
Among the sleeping hills! 



The quiet cattle feeding 

In meadows bright as gold. 
In pastoral vales exceeding 

Their Arcady of old,— 

Are England's, and surround me; 

But far-off regions gleam 
In golden light around me, 

And shapes as of a dream. 

Old realms of Indian story, 

By witchery of thought, 
Wrapt in a hazy glory 

Before my soul are brought! 

The Himalaya mountains. 
The heavenly lands below. 

The Ganges' sacred fountains 
Beneath the eternal snow! 

I see them like the vision 

That fills the poet's eye, 
A cloudland-world elysian 

Built in the sunset-sky. 

I see them in far ages 

In primal splendour shine. 
Peopled by kings and sages. 

Earth's oldest, proudest line. 

With them the great World-Giver, 

As they believed, abode, 
And, symbolled in their River, 

Diffusing blessing, flowed. 

The cities which they builded 

With gold were overlaid. 
The sceptres which they wielded 

To rule the world were made. 

Earth kept no hidden treasure, 
Gold, marble, or rich gem; 

And the water without measure 
Poured out its wealth for them. 

Upon their silken raiment 
Was set the diamond-stone; 

And kingly-given payment 
Was but in gold alone. 

While England yet was forest. 

And idol-gods adored ; 
While yet her wounds were sorest 

Beneath the Roman sword; 

These kingliest of earth's children 
Sate on their ivory thrones. 

Their golden sceptres wielding 
O'er myriad-peopled zones. 

But the glory hath departed ! 

Earth's oldest, proudest born, 
Gold-robed, imperial-hearted. 

Lie in their tombs forlorn! 

And the great River's waters 

Are swollen with blood, not rain! 

And Brahma's sons and daughters 
Cry from the earth in vain. 
226 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



217 



Oh, Himalaya mountains, 
Still, still ye stand unshaken; 

Nor have the river-fountains 
Their ancient bed forsaken ! 

Thou wast no god, oh River, 
Or thou hadst risen in power. 

Thy people to deliver, 
The spoiler to devour! 

But, than the mountains stronger, 
And greater than the River, 

Ariseth the avenger. 
To smite, and to deliver! 

The God of earth and heaven 

Ariseth to set free! — 
Oh, England, thou hast striven 

Against him! woe to thee! 



THE NEW PALACE OF MAHMOUD H. 

lA MIGHTY spirit is abroad ! The same 

I That gave th' unknown to Galileo's ken ; 

That guided Luther's world-awakening pen ; 
'Whence Milton, Hampden, Sidney, souls a-flame 

With liberty and light, drew strength and aim! 
j The same that to the great-souled Genoese, 
Compass in hand, and dreaming of far seas, 
''With glorious visions of the New World came ! 

Oh, moral renovation, that dost shake, 
; And overturn ; dost often bathe in blood 
I The earth's most gracious bosom, yet dost make 
I All change, all desolation bring forth good, 

Spirit of love, thou hast lit thy torch benign 
I Within the city of the Constantine ! 



THE MONASTERY OF SANTA SABA. 



"The monastery of St. Saba is in the wilderness of Ziph, 
and a few hours' distance from Jerusalem. A more dreary 
situation cannot be conceived ; its walla, towers, and terraces, 
are on the brink of precipices ; but could the world aftbrd a 
more sublime or memorable home? We sal down and gazed 
on the deep glen of the Kedron far liene.ith — the wilderness 
on every side, where Duvid fled from the pursuit of Saul ; and 
the Dead Sea and its sublime shores full in front, illumined by 
the setting sun. It was founded by this saint in the middle of 
the fourth century, and has ever since been a religious retreat 
of great f.ime. St. Saba died when nearly a hundred years of 
age. Feeling his end approach, he implored to be carried lo 
his beloved retreat, that his bones might rest there ; and here 
they have been preserved to this day." 



Saint Saba's hours were drawing to their close ; 
And, " carry me, my pious friends," said he, 
" Into the chapel of my last repose. 
Nigh to the waters of the dark Dead Sea ! 

"There have I gathered for my latest need. 
Many a sweet token of the faith we hold. 
Let us depart! my spirit will be freed 
From its clay prison ere the day be told ! 



" And I would see, before mine eyes grow dim, 
The mountains and the Dead Sea's desert shore ; 
And I would hear the brethren's vesper-hymti 
Chime to the Kedron's melody once more ! 

"Oh friends, the Saviour in the desert-place. 
Sustained the fainting multitude with bread ; 
And in my mountain-cavern, with his grace 
Have I, his humblest little one, been fed. 

"The voice of God, while I was yet a child. 
Called me from man and from his works to part; 
I left my father's house, and in the wild 
Wandered three days with meek, submissive heart. 

" Upon the fourth I found an ancient man 
Stretched on the rock, as if in mortal pain ; 
Friends, I am old, but his life's lengthened span 
One-half my years had numbered o'er again. 

" At sight of me he slowly raised his head, 

And gazed upon me with a kindling eye ; 

' 'Tis well ; I knew that thou would 'st come !' he said, 

' Now list my missioned words, and let me die !' 

" Therewith he told a blessed history ; 
As how his father had the gardener been. 
Who kept the garden where the Lord did lie. 
And who the ascending from the tomb had seen. 

" Of the Lord's friends on earth, how much he told. 
For them he knew, or they who had them known ; 
Far more than any written book could hold, 
That day to my enlarged mind was shown ! 

" And of the Lord such living form he brought. 
It seemed that I beheld him in that place ; 
That there I saw the miracles he wrought ; 
That I had converse with him face to face ! 

" Oh, wondrous knowledge ! and from that day forth 
I have not ceased to preach the blessed word ; 
For fourscore years and upwards, through the earth 
Have I proclaimed glad tidings of the Lord ! 

" But in the city, 'mid the crush of men, 
I would not ye should dig my lowly grave, 
But carry me unto the Kedron's glen, 
And lay me in the mountain's chapelled cave ! 

" For there I laid the old man's bones in peace. 
And there would I my earthly part should rest! 
Carry me hence! for ere the daylight cease 
I must be with the Lord, a marriage-guest 1" 



THE GIPSY MOTHER'S SONG. 

The merry miller's rosy dame 
Hath not a wish her heart to tame; 
The baron's lady, young and fair, 
Hath gold to spend, and gold to wear ; 
The Queen of England, richer slill. 
Hath all the world to do her will! 
227 



218 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But England's Queen, with all her state, 
Nor baron's wife, nor miller's mate, 
With all their wealth, are blest as we, 
Within the tent, beneath the tree, — 
As thou and I, my bright-eyed dove, 
And he, the father, whom we love! 



THE ORDEAL OF TOUCH. 



" On occasion of these practices upon the credulity of the 
ignorant, the face of the corpse was bared, as well as the 
breast and arms ; the body was wrapped in a winding-sheet 
of the whitest linen, so that if blood should flow, it would be 
instantly observed. After a mass peculiarly adapted to the 
ordeal, the most suspected, calling down the signal vengeance 
of heaven if they spoke falsely, successively approached the 
bier, and made the sign of the cross upon the dead man's 
breast." 



"Stand back! and let me pass 

On to the holy place ! 
Stand back, my I'riend, if such thou be;- 
Stand back, my slanderous enemy; — 
Impede me none! and let me see 

The dead man face to face! 

" Oh body stiff and stark. 

If I have done thee ill. 
Let every cruel wound of thine 
Pour to the earth the sanguine sign! 
Hide not the guilt if it is mine, 

Oh, body stark and still! 

" I that have been thy friend. 
And with thee counsel ta'en. 

To whom thy secret thoughts were shown ; 

Whose soul was precious as mine own — 

Oh ! if this deed were mine, make known 
By blood outpoured like rain! 

"Here, on thy stony brow, 

My bared right-hand I lay ; 
Here, on thy loving, wounded breast. 
Into thy wounds my hand is prest! 
Oh, body, by black wrong distrest, 

If I am guilty, say ! 

"My hand hath not a stain! 

The death-robe yet is white ! 
Now slanderer, come forth, an thou dare. 
And here upon this altar-stair. 
Stand, with firm foot, and right-hand bare ! 

So heaven attest the right ! 

" I challenge thee to proof! 

I know the secret wood. 
Where thou and thine accomplice ran ! 
Here lieth he, thy murdered man! 
Now, touch that body stark and wan, • 

And dare the accusing blood!" 



THE ANDALUSIAN LOVER. 

A Piclure. 

Scene — The Boudoir of an English Hall. 

Mrs. Alvarez and her Daughter, arid Mrs. Ash- 
BURNHAM, her mother. 

MRS. ASH. 

Lucy, your mother does not like young Westwood. 

LUCY. 

But you would like him, dearest grandmamma! 

MRS. ASH. 

Perhaps I might, my love; but now sit down, 

And take your work, your drawing, or your books ; 

And if you mean to wed a poor man, Lucy, 

Learn to be an economist of time. 

— So, daughter Alvarez, what I have heard 

Is really true ; this match meets not your wishes. 

MRS. ALVA. 

My wishes ! Is 't not natural for a mother 
To wish her only child the fairest fortune ! 

MRS. ASH. 

No doubt on 't, daughter Alvarez ; but still 
What is that fairest fortune, is the question. 

MRS. ALVA. 

There is no question here ! 1 'm not a child, 
To form imperfect judgments! 

MRS. ASIL 

No, my daughter; 
But let me hear your reasons 'gainst this match: 
The world speaks well of Westwood. 

MRS. ALVA. 

As a man 
I can say nought against him — but as husband 
For Lucy Alvarez — for your granddaughter. 
He is unmeet indeed ! 

MRS. ASH. 

Is he well-bred ? 

MRS. ALVA. 

Oh, perfectly — or we should ne'er have known him 

MRS. ASH. 

Handsome and clever, is he ? 



MRS. ALVA. 

So he 's thought. 
But to my taste is neither ; scarce above 
The middle stature, and too grave by far ; 
And as for cleverness, all men are taught 
To make some show of learning. 

MRS. ASH. 

Is he moral ? 
A good son, and a generous landlord, is he? 

MRS. ALVA. 

Oh, most absurd ! Landlord ! He has no tenants ! 
Why, the poor Weslwoods is a county proverb : 
The father wasted all his patrimony ; 
He sold and mortgaged his broad, ancient manors, 
And by illegal means despoiled the heir. 
Till, at his death, the very furniture — 
Costly as that of any ducal mansion — 
Was sold to pay his debts. Landlord indeed ! 
Why, the old house and grounds alone remain. 
And how they 're kept up is a miracle ! 
It makes one melancholy but to drive 
228 



1 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



219 



Past those old gates, where never carriage enters — 
Which only will be opened for the hearse ! 

MRS. ASH. 

But said you not he had a mother living ? 

MRS. ALVA. 

Oh yes ! she was a Cavendish, and brought 
A noble fortune. 

MRS. ASH. 

True — poor Margaret Cavendish ! 
\Ve were at school together; a fine creature, 
A generous-hearted, noble-minded girl 
Was Margaret Cavendish ! 

MRS. ALVA. 

But now none see her ; 
She keeps no company ; she has no carriage, — 
Has lived so long out of society, 
That no one misses her. 

MRS. ASH. 

'T is the world's way ! 
Well, but her son, I hope, is dutiful. 

MRS. ALVA. 

No doubt on 't — T ne'er heard a word against him; 
But with a ruined name and broken fortune 
He is no match for Lucy Alvarez! 
— Why does he enter not the church or army. 
And got preferment there ! — 't were nobler far — 
'Twere manlier far, than being a fortune-hunter! 

MRS. ASH. 

Now, daughter Alvarez, one little word : 
And Lucy, you may lay your book aside — 
But small attention have you given your book — 
And take this footstool. Now recall your youth. 
Dear daughter Alvarez! 

MRS. ALVA. 

There are not many 
Would bid me call again what is scarce past. 

MRS. ASir. 

I am no flatterer, but your matron years 
Become your brow like youth ; and now, my Alice, 
Cast back your memory twenty living years. 
And what is present with you ? 

MRS. ALVA. 

Ah, I see 
You would entrap me ! But the case is not 
A parallel. Don Pedro Alvarez 
Was more than of a noble stock — was rich. 
And I was tiiought to be the dowerless child 
Of a poor Englishman. 

MRS. ASH. 

But, dearest Alice, 
Did you not siifl^er him to woo you, spite 
Your father's wishes and your mother's prayers — 
Nay, chide me not with looks — our gentle Lucy 
Shall not be disobedient in her love! 

MRS. ALVA. 

But time proved I was right. Poor Alvarez! 
Throughout all Andalusia was there none 
To equal him ! You loved him like a son ! 

MRS. ASH. 

So might you love young VVestwood ! 
And even as I, my .'^lice, and your father, 
20 



Bid grant your judgment right, although you fled. 
As Lucy shall not — like a guilty thing — 
So may you, in this matter of her wooing. 
Find that our little Lucy chooseth well, 
Despite her mother's judgment 

Ah, my Lucy, 
You knew not, did you, that your mother's marriage 
Was one of stealth ? — that she was wooed 
Like Juhet, in the play ? 

LUCY. 

Oh, yes ; for many a year 
I 've had a guess at some such sweet romance ! 
There was a famous painter made a picture. 
And that same picture from my earliest childhood 
Fixed my regard ; 'tis in the drawing-room. 
Hung just above the Indian cabinet. 
And it is called "The Andalusian Lover;" 
I thought it was the portrait of my mother; 
And that the lover bore a strong resemblance 
Unto the miniature my mother wears, — 
I understand it now ! 

But, mother dear. 
Have I said aught to grieve you ? — Oh, forgive me! 

MRS. ALVA. (Kissing her.) 
No, my dear girl ! But had you known your father. 
You could not laughingly have spoken of him ! 

MRS. ASH. 

My Alice, let these memories of the past 

Bring blessings to your daughter ! Good Don Pedro 

Was worthy of your never-dying love ; 

And Arthur Westvvood — nay, I '11 have my will — 

Is not less worthy Lucy's. 

Come, this day 
I '11 visit my old friend who hath been schooled 
By hard adversity, good Margaret Cavendish; 
And you shall go with me ! 



INSTALLATION OF THE BISHOP OF 
MAGNESIA. 

'TwAs morning, and the city was astir. 

As if some new joy were awaiting her. 

Doors were thrown wide, and all adown the street 

The pavement answered to the tread of feet ; 

And everywhere some eager-spoken word 

About the expected Bishop might be heard. 

And then 'twas told, how, while the people slept, 

Ere the first streaks of day, the church was swept ; 

How holy water all about was spilled ; 

How every censer was with incense filled ; 

And furthermore, that even now might they 

Expect the Bishop on his onward way. 

For they who rode to meet him had been gone 

Three hours at least. They must be here anon ! 

Anon the throng returned; the cavalcade 
Along the street their easy progress made ; 
And all admired the horses' stately tread. 
And the mixed rider's vestments, blue and red ; 
But chiefly all regards to him were given. 
Who came the anointed delegate of heaven, 
229 



220 



HOWITT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Who in the midst in solemn state appeared, 
With high, pale forehead, and a curled black beard. 
The church was reached; the holy hymn was 
raised. 
And to the roof a thousand tapers blazed ; 
Priests robed in white received him at the door, 
And turbaned foreheads touched the marble floor. 

Upon his throne the patriarch took his beat, 
In silken vesture flowing to his fieet. 
Wrought in rich needlework with gold and gem, 
Uf pictured saints embroidered round the hem. 
Lights beamed ; the censer's silver chains were 
swayed, 
And clouds of incense every hand obeyed. 
The Bishop rose, and o'er the kneeling crowd 
Thrice waved the rood, and blessing spake aloud. 
Again hymns pealed, and incense warm and rich 
]n cloudy volumes veiled each sainted niche. 
The Bishop rose; the pictured saints were kissed, 
And from the door the people were dismissed. 

The Bishop was installed ; the golden sun 
Blazoned the purple sea, and day was done. 



A FOREST SCENE . 
IN THE DAVS OF WICKLIFFE. 

A LITTLE child she read a book 

Beside an open door ; 
And, as she read page after page. 

She wonder'd more and more. 

Her little finger carefully 

Went pointing out the place; — 

Her golden locks hung drooping down, 
And shadow'd half her face. 

The open book lay on her knee. 

Her eyes on it were bent; 
And as she read page after page, 

The colour came and went. 

She sate upon a mossy stone 

An open door beside; 
And round, for miles on every hand, 

Stretch'd out a forest wide. 

The summer sun shone on the trees, 
The deer lay in the shade; 

And overhead the singing birds 
Their pleasant clamour made. 

There was no garden round the house, 
.^nd it was low and small, — 

The forest sward grew to the door; 
The lichens on the wall. 

There was no garden round about. 
Yet flowers were growing free, 

The cowslip and the daflodil. 
Upon the forest-lea. 



The butterfly went flitting by. 

The bees were in the flowers; 
But the little child sate steadfastly, 

As she had sate for hours. 

" Why sit j'ou here, my little maid?" 

An aged pilgrim spake; 
The child look'd upward from her book. 

Like one but just awake. 

Back fell her locks of golden hair, 

And solemn was her look. 
As thus she ansvver'il, witlessly, 

"Oh, sir, I read this book!" 

"And what is there within that book 

To win a child like ihee ? — 
Up! join thy mates, the merry birds, 

And frolic with the bee!" 

"Nay, sir, I cannot leave this book, 

I love it more than play; — 
1 've read all legends, but this one 

Ne'er saw I till this day. 

"And there is something in this book 
That makes all care be gone, — 

And yet I weep, 1 know not why, 
As I go reading on!" 

"Who art thou, child, that thou shouldst read 

A book with mickle heed? — 
Books are for clerks — the King himself 

Hath much ado to read!" 

"My father is a forester — 

A bowman keen and good ; 
He keeps the deer within their bound, 

And worketh in the wood. 

"My mother died in Candlemas, — 

The flow-ers are all in blow 
Upon her grave at Allonby 

Down in the dale below." 

This said, unto her book .she turn'd. 

As steadfast as befjre; 
"Nay," said the pilgrim, "nay, not yet, 

And you must tell me more. 
"Who was it taught you thus to read?" 

" Ah, sir, it was my mother, — 
She taught me both to read and spell — 

And so she taught my brother ; 

"My brother dwells at Allonby 
With the good monks alway; — 

And this new book he brought to me, 
But only for one day- 

"Oh, sir, it is a wondrous book. 

Better than Charlemagne, — 
And. be you pleased to leave m.e now, 

I '11 read in it again!" 

" Nay, read to me," the pilgrim said ; 

And the little child went on, 
To read of CnmsT, as was set forth 

In the Gospel of St. John. 

230 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



221 



On, on she read, and gentle tears 

Adown her cheeks did slide ; 
The pilgrim sate, with bended head, 

And he wept at her side. 

"I've heard," said he, "the Archbishop, 
I 've heard the Pope of Rome, 

But never did their spoken words 
Thus to my spirit come! 

"The book, it is a blessed book! 

lis name, what may it be ? 
Said she, " They are the words of Christ 

That I have read to thee ; 
Now done into the English tongue 

For folks unlearn'd as we !" 

" Sancta Maria !" said the man. 

Our canons have decreed 
That this is an unholy book 

For simple folk to read! 

"Sancta Maria! Bless'd be God! 

Had this good book been mine, 
I need not have gone on pilgrimage 

To holy Palestine ! 

"Give me the book, and let me read! 

My soul is strangely slirr'd; — 
They are such words of love and truth 

As ne'er before I heard!" 

The little girl gave up the book, 
And the pilgrim, old and brown. 

With reverent lips did kiss the page, 
Then on the stone sat down. 

And aye he read page after page ; 

Page after page he turn'd ; 
And as he read their blessed words 

His heart within him burn'd. 

Still, still the book the old man read, 
As he would ne'er have done; 

From the hour of noon he read the book, 
Unto the set of sun. 

The little child she brought him out 

A cake of wheaten bread ; 
But it lay unbroke at eventide; 



Nor did he raise his head 

Until he every written page 

Within the book had read. 

Then came the sturdy forester 

Along the homeward track. 
Whistling aloud a hunting tune. 

With a slain deer on his back. 

Loud greeting gave the forester 

Unto the pilgrim poor; 
The old man rose with thoughtful brow, 

And enter'd at the door. 

The two had sate them down to meal, 

And the pilgrim 'gan to tell 
How he had eaten on Olivet, 

And drank at Jacob's well. 

And then he told how he had knelt 
AVhere'er our Lord had pray'd ; 

How he had in the Garden been, 
And the tomb where he was laid; — 

And then he turn'd unto the book, 

And read, in English plain, 
How Christ had died on Calvary ; 

How he had risen again ; 

And all his comfortable words. 

His deeds of mercy all. 
He read, and of the widow's mite, 

And the poor prodigal. 

As water to the parched soil. 

As to the hungry, bread, 
So fell upon the woodman's soul 

Each word the pilgrim read. 

Thus through the midnight did they read, 

Until the dawn of day ; 
And then came in the woodman's son 

To fetch the book away. 

All quick and troubled was his speech. 
His face was pale with dread, 

For he said, "The King hath made a law 
That the book must not be read, — 

For it was such a fearful heresy. 
The holy Abbot said." 

231 



THE 



mm 



OF 



HENRY HART MILMAN. 



20 ^ 



345 



! MEMOIR OF THE REV. HENRY HART^''"*' 
I MiLMAN 239 

I FAZIO, a Tragedy 241 

SAMOR, an Heroic Poem 261 

ANNE BOLE YN, a Dramatic Poem 328 

^'otes 354 

THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH, a Dramatic 

; Poem 355 

I BELSHAZZAR, a Dramatic Poem 382 

Notes ^Qi 

I THE FALL OF JERUSALEM, a Dramatic 
I Poem jj 

Notes 432 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS:— ^^^"^ 

The Belvidere Apollo 434 

Judicium Regale iJ. 

Alexander Tumulum Achillis Invisens 437 

Fortune; from the Italian of Guidi 439 

The Merry Heart 440 

The Taking of Troy ; from Euripides 441 

The Slave Ship i5_ 

The Love of God; two Sonnets 443 

Deborah's Hymn of Triumph if,. 

Downfall of Jerusalem, from the Book of Je- 
remiah 444 

Hymns for Church Service 445-447 

(2.17) 



MEMOIR OF 



THE REV. HENRY HART MILMAN, 



The life of the scholar united with that of the 
clergyman, is, in a peculiar manner, barren and 
inattractive to the general reader, from its being 
deficient in those stirring incidents which fix the 
attention and take strong hold upon tlie memory. 
There may be every virtue under heaven, all the 
graces of the mind, and the fullest developement 
of those tranquil and better qualifications of tlie 
heart which are, in truth and reason, men's no- 
blest attributes ; but there must be stir and bus- 
tle, animation and variety, to enchain the indif- 
ferent reader to the biographical page. Why the 
purer virtues alone are so inattractive, is perhaps 
owing to the superior charm they possess in the 
social circle. They .nust be experienced to be 
valued, and interest from immediate contact and 
personal observation, becoming mere verbiage on 
paper, because they are there seen divested of their 
simple charms ; the chaste beauty of their hues 
being, like the transitory expression on the fea- 
tures of the orator or the actor, untransferable, 
and only truly engaging in actual observation. 

To this tranquil order of biographical subjects 
belongs the memoir of the Rev. Henry Hart 
MiLMAN, a clergyman of the church of England, 
and Professor of Poetry in the University of Ox- 
ford. He was born in London, February 10th, 
1791 ; and was the youngest son of Sir Francis 
Milman, a very eminent physician, considered to 
have been much in the confidence of the late king 
and queen of England. The name of Mr. Mil- 
man's mother was Hart. 

Our poet was first sent to school at Greenwich, 
where he had for a master the well-known Dr. 
Charles Burney. From the tutorage of Dr. Bur- 
ney he was removed to Eton. In that celebrated 
seminary he remained about nine years. In the 
year 1810 he went to Oxford, and entered at Bra- 
zen-Nose College. At this university he obtained 
the greatest number of prizes that ever fell to the 
lot of one individual. One of these was for English 
verse, one for Latin verse, and a third and fourth 
for English and Latin essays, while he was distin- 
guished for the first honours in the examinations. 

In the year 1815, Mr. Milman became a fellow 
of Brazen-Nose College, and in 1817 entered into 
holy orders. It was in the year 1817 that the 
vicarage of St. Mary in the town of Reading was 



conferred upon him. In 1821 he was elected 
professor of poetry in the university, — an office 
usually held for five years, but the professor is 
customarily re-elected for the same term. In 1824, 
Mr. Milman married Mary Anne, the youngest 
daughter of Lieutenant-General Cockell. 

In the foregoing lines are comprised all the 
events of the peaceful and virtuous life of a dis- 
tinguished man, up to the period when his name 
came forth to the world in his writings. In the 
time preceding that period, to arrive at such ho- 
nours there must have been as arduous, nay more 
arduous mental labour, than he encounters who 
overruns kingdoms, or whose adventures and 
hair-breadth escapes by sea and land fill a folio 
over which the reader bends with admiration and 
interest. How little does the one attract, com- 
pared with the other I Yet how encliaining and 
useful, — how much matter for contemplation 
would be afforded to the world, were it practica- 
ble to record all the workings of the student's 
mind, which have passed away in secret. The 
strugglings after knowledge, the satisfaction at 
successful progress, the despair of conquering a 
difficulty at one time, and the triumph over ob- 
stacles at another; the aspirations after distinc- 
tion, the perseverance in toil and the glory of 
success. 

The first appearance of Mr. Milman before the 
public was in the tragedy of " Fazio," which was 
written before he went into orders, and was af- 
terwards performed with distinguished success. 
It appeared on the scene at Drury-Lane, on the 
5th of February, 1818; but it had been previ- 
ously published by its author, and had passed 
through three editions. The plot of this drama 
is more than commonly interesting, and has the 
recommendation of being simple, and conse- 
quently more noble in character in proportion 
to its simplicity. The imagery is natural and 
chaste, the diction pure and elegant. The poetry 
is of the highest order, and abounds in pas- 
sages of chastened beauty and great felicity of 
expression. 

The " Fall of Jerusalem," the next dramatic 
work of this poet, appeared in 1820. Perhaps 
there is more of nature and pathos, more to affect 
the heart and feelings in this poem tiian in " Fa- 

(249) 



240 



MEMOIR OF THE REV. HENRY HART MILMAN. 



zio," or, rather, more that strikes the mind of 
tiie reader, and produces profounder impressions. 
The time is limited to thirty-six hours ; and the 
subject admitting powerful descriptions, the au- 
thor has not neglected to avail himself of all 
which was within his grasp, to enhance the effect 
of the performance. There is a happy substitu- 
tion of prophecy for the ancient government of 
destiny, and all the various characters are forci- 
bly and nobly conceived. This poem is well wor- 
thy the pen of a clergyman, gifted, as its author 
undeniably is, with genius and learning far above 
the common lot of dramatic writers. 

These works may be said to have established 
their author's fame upon an immovable basis, 
and, with others which he has undertaken since, 
to have earned him a celebrity of no mean grade. 
Mr. Milman assiduously performs the duties of a 
clergjnnan, and is greatly respected by all who 
know him in that character. They are things not 
a little to be envied, in journeying thiough 



the wild of life, the possessing that blamelessness 
of character, and the attracting that affection 
from our fellow-citizens which is so seldom the 
lot of celebrity. Thus is doubled the sum of 
rational enjoyment. In these respects Mr. Mil- 
man is to be envied, if envy it be lawful to indulge 
towards any of our fellow-creatures; and, if report 
say true, no one more merits to enjoy the delight- 
ful feeling of conscious virtue than the author of 
" Fazio." 

Several articles in the " Quarterly Review," in 
its better literary days, are attributed to the pen 
of Mr. Milman; but none of them are tainted with 
the asperity which was so long the besetting sin 
of that publication. The Oxford professor of 
poetry would be as far above the meanness of 
personal abuse, as his talents are above those of 
most who laboured in that work in its days of 
rabid criticism. Mr. Milman's articles were lite- 
rary, temperate, and such as might be expected 
from the pen of the Christian and the poet. 

(250) 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

HENRY HART MILMAN. 



A TRAGEDY. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The following attempt at reviving our old national 
drama with greater simplicity of plot, was written 
with some view to the stage. Circumstances and an 
opinion of considerable weight induced me to prelcr 
the less perilous ordeal of the press: as in the one 
case, if its merits are small or moderate, the quiet 
sleep of oblivion will be infinitely less grating to an 
author's feelings, than a noisy and tumultuous execu- 
tion in a public theatre ; if, on the other hand, public 
opinion be in its favour, its subsequent appearance on 
the stage would be at least under fa%'ourable auspices. 
I am aware, that there is a prejudice at the theatre 
against plays which have first appeared in print; but 
whence it originates I am at a loss to conceive. It 
being impossible, on the present scale of our theatres, 
for more than a certain proportion of those present to 
see or hear with sufficient distinctness to form a judg- 
ment on a drama, which is independent of show and 
■hurry; it surel)' would be an advantage that a pre- 
vious familiarity with the language and incidents 
should enable the audience to catch those lighter and 
fainter touches of character, of passion, and of poetry, 
on which dramatic excellence so mainly depends. I 
put entirely out of the question those who go to a 
play from mere desire of novelty, whose opinions 
either way would be of very slight value. 

The Play is founded on a story, which was quoted 
in the Annual Register for 1795, from the " Varieties 
of Literature ;" but great liberties have been taken 
with it. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

MEN. 

Duke of Flouence. 
gonsalvo, ) . „, 

AiTRio \ !ienators of Florence. 



GiRALDi Fazio 

Bartolo. 

Philario. 

Falsetto. 

Dandolo. 

Theodore, 

AXTONIO, 
PlERO. 



^ Captains of the Guard. 



WOMEN. 
Marchesa Aldabella. 
Bianca. 
Clara. 



FAZIO. 



ACT I. — SCENE I. 

A Room with Crucibles and Apparatus of Alcliymy. 
Enter Fazio and Biaxca. 

FAZIO. 

Why what a peevish envious fabulist, 
' Was he, that vow'd cold wedlock's atmosphere 

Vk'earies the thin and dainty plumes of love; 
1 That a fond husband's holy appetite. 
Like the gross surfeit of intemperate joy. 
Crows sickly and liistidious at the sweets 
Of its own chosen flower! — My own Bianca, 
With what delicious scorn we laugh away 
Such sorry satire ! 

BIANCA. 

Which of thy smooth looks 
Teacheth this harmony of bland deceit ? 
Oh, my own Fazio ! if a serpent told me 
That it was stingless in a tone like thine, 
I should believe it. Oh, thou sweetly false! 
That at cold midnight quitt'st my side to pore 
O er musty tomes, darii sign'd and character'd, 
251 



242 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



O'er boiling skellets, crucibles and stills, 
Drugs and elixirs. 

FAZIO. 

Ay, chide on, my love ; 
The nightingale's complaining is more sweet. 
Than half the dull unvarying birds that pipe 
Perpetual amorous joy. — Tell me, Bianca, 
How long is 't since we wedded. 

EIANCA. 

Wouldst thou know 
Thy right and title to thy weariness ? — 
Beyond two years. 

FAZIO. 

Days, days, Bianca ! Love 
Hath in its calendar no tedious time. 
So long as what cold lifi?less souls call years. 
Oh, with my books, my sage philosophy. 
My iii)iint.s, and their mother, time slides on 
So smoothly, as 'twere fall'n asleep, forgetting 
Its heaven-ordained motion. We are poor ; 
But in the wealth of love, in that, Bianca, 
In that we are eastern saltans. I have thought 
If that my wondrous alchymy should win 
That precious liquor, whose transmuting dew 
Makes the black iron start forth brilliant gold, 
Were it not wise to cast it back again 
Into its native darkness? 

BIANCA. 

Out upn it I 

Oh, leave it there, my Fazio! — Leave it there ! — 

I hate it! — 'Tis my rival, 'tis thy mistress. 

Ay, this it is thai makes thee strange and restless, 
A truant to thine own Bianca's arms, 
This wondrous secret. 

FAZIO. 

Dost thou know, Bianca, 
Our neighbour, old Bartolo ? 

BIAN'CA. 

O yes, yes — 
That yellow wretch, that looks as he were stain'd 
With watching his own gold ; every one knows him. 
Enough to loathe him. Not a friend hath he, 
IVor kindred nor familiar; not a slave. 
Not a lean serving wench: nothing e'er enter'd 
But his spare self within his jealous doors. 
Except a wand'ring rat ; and that, they say, 
Was famine-struck, and died there. — What of him? 

FAZIO. 

Yet he, Bianca, he is of our rich ones. 

There 's not a galliot on the sea, but bears 

A venture of Barlolo's ; not an acre. 

Nay, not a villa of our proudest princes. 

But he hath cramp'd it with a mortgage ; he, 

He only stocks our prisons with his debtors. 

I saw him creeping home last night; he shudder'd 

As he unlock'd his door, and look'd around. 

As if he thought that every breath of wind 

Were some keen thief; and when he lock'd him in, 

I heard the grating key turn twenty times. 

To try if all were safe. I look'd again 

From our high window by mere chance, and saw 

The motion of his scanty moping lantern ; 

And, where Lis wind-rent latlice was ill stuflTd 



With tatter'd remnants of a money-bag. 

Through cobwebs and thick dust I spied his face, 

Like some dry wither-boned anatom)', 

Through a huge chest-lid, jealously and scantily 

Uplifted, peering upon coin and jewels. 

Ingots and wedges, and broad bars of gold, 

Upon whose lustre the wan light shone muddily. 

As though the New World had outrun the Spaniard, 

And emptied all its mines in that coarse hovel. 

His lerret eyes gloated as wanton o'er them, 

As a gross Satyr on a sleeping Nymph ; 

And then, as he heard something like a sound, 

He clapp'd the lid to, and blew out the lantern. 

But I, Bianca, hurried to thy arms. 

And thank'd my God that I had braver riches. 

BIANCA. 

Oh then, let that black furnace buret : dash down 
Those ugly and misshapen jars and vials. 
Nay, nay, most sage philosopher, to-night. 
At least to-night, be only thy Bianca's. 

[She clings to Jam. 
FAZIO {looking fondly at her.) 
Why, e'en the Prince oi' Bards was false and slan- 
derous. 
Who girt Jove's bride in that voluptuous zone, 
Ere she could win her weary lord to love; 
While my earth-born Bianca bears by nature 
An ever-blooming cssstus of delight! 

BIANCA. 

So courtly and so fanciful, my Fazio ! 

Which of our dukes hath lent thee his cast poesies? 

Why, such a musical and learned phrase 

Had soften'd the marchesa, Aldabella, 

That high signora, that once pamper'd thee 

Almost to madness with her rosy smiles ; 

And then my lady queen put on her winter. 

And froze thee till thou wert a very icicle. 

Had not the lowly and despised Bianca 

Shone on it with the summer of her pity. 

FAZIO. 

Nay, taunt not her, Bianca, taunt not her! 
Thy Fazio loved her once. Who, who would blame 
Heaven's moon, because a maniac hath adored it. 
And died in his dotage ? E'en a saint might wear 
Proud Aldabella's scorn, nor look less heavenly. 
Oh, it dropt balm upon the wounds it gave ; 
The soul was pleased to be so sweetly wrong'd. 
And misery grew rapturous. Aldabella! 
The gracious! the melodious! Oh, the words 
Laugh'd on her lips ; the motion of her smiles 
Shower'd beauty, as the air-caressed spray 
The dews of morning; and her stately steps 
Were light as though a winged angel trod 
Over earth's flowers, and lear'd to brush away 
Their delicate hues ; ay, e'en her very robes 
Were animate and breathing, as they felt 
The presence of her loveliness, spread around 
Their thin and gauzy clouds, ministering freely 
Officious duty on the shrine where Nature 
Ilath lavish'd all her skill. 

BIANCA. 

A proud loose wanton ! 
252 



FAZIO. 



243 



FAZIO. 

She wanton! — A Idabella loose! — Then, then 
Are the pure lilies black as soot within, 
The stainless virgin snow is hot and rancid, 

And chastity ay, it may be in heaven. 

But all beneath the moon is wild and haggard. 
If she be spotted, oh, unholiness 
Hath never been so delicately lodged 
Since that bad devil walk'd fair Paradise. 

BIANCA. 

Already silent ? Hath your idol quaflPd 
Enough of your soft incense ? Fazio ! Fazio ! 
But that her gaudy bark would aye disdain 
The quiet stream whereon we glide so smooth, 
I should be fearful of ye. 

FAZIO. 

]Vay, unjust! 
Ungenerous Bianca ! who foregoes, 
For the gay revel of a golden harp, 
Its ecstasies and rich enchanting liills. 
His own domestic lute's familiar pleasing ? 
But thou, thou vain and wanton in thy power. 
Thou know'st canst make e'en jealousy look lovely. 
And all thy punishment for that bad passion 
Be this — [Kisses her] — Good night! — I will but 

snatch a look 
How the great crucible doth its slow work. 
And be with thee ; unless thou lanciest, sweet. 
That Aldabella lurks behind the furnace ; 
And then, heaven knows how long I may be truant. 

[Exit Bianca. 
FAZIO (solus.) 
Oh, what a star of the first magnitude 
Were poor young Fazio, if his skill should work 
The wondrous secret your deep-closeted sages 
Grow grey in dreaming of! Why all our Florence 
Would be too narrow for his branching glories; 
It would o'erleap the Alps, and all the north 
Troop here to see the great philosopher. 
He would be wealthy too — wealthy in fame ; 
And that 's more golden than the richest gold. 

[A groan without. 
Holy St. Francis ! what a groan was there ! 

Voice without. 
Within there ! — Oh! withm there, neighbour ! — Death, 
Murder, and merciless robbery ! 

FAZIO opens the Door. 

What! Bartolo! 

BARTOLO. 

Thank ye, my friend ! Ha! ha! ha ! my old limbs! 
I did not think them half so tough and sinewy. 
St. Dominic ! but their pins prick'd close and keen. 
Six of 'em, strong and sturdy, with their daggers. 
Tickling the old man to let loose his ducats. 

FAZIO. 

Who, neighbour, who 1 

BARTOLO. 

Robbers, black crape-faced robbers, 
Your only blood-suckers, that drain your veins. 
And yet their meagre bodies aye grow sparer. 
They knew that I had moneys from the Duke. 
But I o'erreach'd them, neighbour: not a ducat, 
Nay, not a doit, to cross themselves withal, 
21 2F 



Got they from old Bartolo. Oh, I bleed ! 

And my old heart beats minutes like a clock. 

FAZIO. 

A surgeon, friend ! 

BARTOLO. 

Ay, one of your kind butchers, 
Who cut and slash your flesh for their own pastime, 
And then, God bless the mark! they must have 

money ! 
Gold, gold, or nothing! Silver is grown coarse. 
And rings unhandsomely. Have I 'scaped robbing. 

Only to give ? Oh there ! there ! there ! Cold, cold, 

Cold as December. 

FAZIO. 

Nay, then, a confessor! 

BARTOLO. 

A confessor! one of your black smooth talkers, 

That drone the name of God incessaiuiy, 

Like the drear burthen of a doleful ballad! 

That sing to one of bounteous codicils 

To the Franciscans or some hospital ! 

Oh ! there 's a shooting ! — Oozing here ! — Ah me ! 

My ducats and my ingots scarcely cold 

From the hot Indies! — Oh! and I forgot' 

To seal those jewels from the Milan Duke ! 

Oh! misery, misery ! — Just this very day. 

And that mad spendthrift Angelo hath not sign'd 

The mortgage on those meadows by the Arno. 

Oh ! misery, misery ! — Yet I 'scaped them bravely, 

And brought my ducats off! [Dies 

FAZIO. 

Why e'en lie there, as foul a mass of earth 
As ever loaded it. 'T were sin to charity 
To wring one drop of brine upon thy corpse. 
In sooth. Death 's not nice-stomach'd, to be cramm'd 
With such unsavoury offal. What a god 
'Mong men might this dead wither'd thing have been, 
That now must rot beneath the earth, as once 
He rotted on it! Why his wealth had won 
In better hands an atmosphere around him. 
Musical ever with the voice of blessing, 
Nations around his tomb, like marble mourners, 
Vied for their pedestals. — In better hands? 
Methinks these fingers are not coarse nor clumsy. 
Philosophy, Philosophy ! thou 'rt lame 
And tortoise-paced to my fleet desires? 
I scent a shorter path to fame and riches. 
The Hesperian trees nod their rich clusters at me. 
Tickling my timorous and withdrawing grasp; — 
I would, yet dare not: — that 's a coward's reckoning 
Half of the sin lies in " I would." To-morrow, 
If that it find me poor, will write me fool. 
And myself be a mock unto myself 
Ay, and the body^nurder'd in my house ! 
Your carrion breeds most strange and loathsome in- 
sects — 
Suspicion 's of the quickest and the keenest — 
So, neighbour, by your leave, your keys! In sooth. 
Thou hadst no desperate love for holy church ; 
Long-knoUed bell were no sweet music to thee. 
A "God be with thee" shall be all thy mass; 
Thou never lovedst those dry and droning priests, 
253 



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Thou 'It rot most cool and quiet in my garden ; 
Your gay and gilded vault would be too costly. 

[Exit with the bodtj of Bartolo. 



SCENE II. 

A Street. 

£iiter Fazio, uilh a dark Lantern. 

I, wont to rove like a tame household dog, 
Caress'd by every hand, and fearing none. 
Now prowl e'en like a grey and treasonous wolf. 
'T is a bad deed to rob, and I 'II have none on 't : 
'Tis a bad deed to rob — and whom? the dead! 
Ay, of their winding-sheets and cofiin nails. 
'T is but a quit-rent for the land I sold him. 
Almost two yards to house him and his worms: 
Somewhat usurious in the main, but that 
Is honest thrift to your keen usurer. 
Had he a kinsman, nay a friend, 't were devilish. 
But now whom rob I? why the state — In sooth 
Marvellous litUe owe I this same state, 
That I should be so dainty of its welfare. 
Methinksour Duke hath pomp enough, our Senate 
Sit in their scarlet robes and ermine tippets, 
And live in proud and pillar'd palaces. 
Where their Greek wines flow plentiful — Besides, 
To scatter it abroad amid so many, 
It were to cut the sun out into spangles. 
And mar its brilliance by dispersing it. 
Away ! away ! his burying is my Rubicon ! 
Cffisar or nothing! Now, ye close-lock'd treasures, 
Put on your gaudiest hues, outshine yourselves ! 
Vv'ith a deliverer's, not a tyrant's hand 
Invade I thus your dull and peaceful slumbers 
And give ye light and liberty. Ye shall not 
Moulder and rust in pale and pitiful darkness. 
But front the sun with light bright as his own. 



SCENE III. 

The Street near Fazio's Door. 

Re-enter Fazio roilh a sack : he rests it. 

My steps were ever to this door, as though 
They trod on beds of perfume and of down. 
The winged birds were not by half so light, 
When through the lazy tvvilight air they wheel 
Home to their brooding mates. But now, methinks, 
The heavy earth doth cling around my feet. 
I move as every separate limb were gyved 
With its particular weight of manacle. 
The moonlight that was wont to seom so soft, 
So balmy to the slow respired breath. 
Icily, shiveringly cold falls on me. 
The marble pillars, that .soared stately up. 
As though to prop the azure vault of heaven. 
Hang o'er me with a dull and dizzy weight. 
The stones whereon I tread do grimly speak, 
Forbidding echoes, ay with human voices. 
Unbodied arms pluck at me as I pass, 



And soeketless pale eyes look glaring on me. 
But I have past them : and methinks this weight 
Might strain more sturdy sinews than mine own. 
Howbeit, thank God, 'tis safe! Thank God! — for 

what ? 
That a poor honest man 's grown a rich villain. 



SCENE IV. 

Fazio's House. 

Enter Fazio with his sack, which he opeiis and surveys. 

I thank ye, bounteous thieves! most liberal thieves! 

Your daggers are my worship. Have ye leap'd 

The broad and sharp-staked trenches of the law, 

Mock'd at the deep damnation that attaints 

The souls of murderers, for my hands unbloodied. 

As delicately, purely white as ever, 

To pluck the golden fruitage ? Oh, I thank ye. 

Will chronicle ye, my good friends and true. 

Enter Bianca. (Fazio conceals the treasure.) 

EIANCA. 

Nay, Fazio, nay : this is too much : nay, Fazio, 
I 'II not be humoured like a froward child, 
Trick'd into sleep with pretty tuneful tales. 

FAZIO. 

We feast the Duke to-morrow ; shall it be 

In the Adorni or Vitelli palace ? 

They 're both on sale, and each is fair and lofty. 

BIA.XCA. 

Why, Fazio, art thou frantic ? Nay, look not 
So strangely, so unmeaningly. I had rather 
That thou wouldst weep, than look so haggard joyful. 

FAZIO. 

Ay, and a glorious banquet it shall be : 

Gay servants in as proud caparisons. 

As though they served immortal gods with nectar. 

Ay, ay, Bianca! there shall be a princess; 

She shall be lady of the feast. Let 's see 

Your gold and crimson for yourfair-hair'd beauties : — 

It shall be gold and crimson. Dost thou know 

The princess tliat I mean ? Dost thou, Bianca ? 

BIANCA. 

Nay, if thou still wilt flout me, I '11 not weep: 
Thou shalt not have the pitiful bad pleasure 
Of wringing me to misery. I '11 be cold 
And patient as a statue of my wrongs. 

FAZIO. 

I have just thought, Bianca, these black stills 

An ugly and ill-fitting furniture : 

We '11 try an they are brittle. {Dashes them in pieces.) 
I '11 have gilding. 

Nothing but gilding, nothing but what looks glittering: 

I'm sick of black and dingy darlcness. Here (Un- 
covering the sack.) 

Look here, Bianca, here 's a light ! Take care : 

Thine eyesight is too weak for such a blaze. 

It is not daylight; nay, it is not morn — 

And every one is worth a thousand florins. 

Who shall be princess of the feast to-morrow ? 

[She bursts into tears. 

Within, within, I '11 tell thee all within. [Exeunt. 
254 



FAZIO. 



245 



ACT II. — SCENE J. 

A Hall in the Palace of Fazio, 

F.\xsETTO, Dandolo, PiiiLARio, and a Gentleman. 

FALSETTO. 

Serve ye Lord Fazio ? 

GENTLEMAN. 

Ay, sir, he honours me 
With his commands. 

FALSETTO. 

'T is a brave gentleman ! 
Tell him Signior Falsetto, and Philario, 
The most renowned Improvisatore, 
And Signior Dandolo, the court fashionist. 
Present their duty to him. 

GENTLEMAN. 

Ay, good sirs. 
[Aside.] My master hath a Midas touch; these fellows 
Will try if he hath ears like that great king. [Exit. 

Enter Fazio, splendidly dressed. 

FALSETTO. 

Most noble lord, most wonderful philosopher ! 
We come to thank thee, sir, that thou dost honour 
Our Florence with the sunlight of your fame. 
Thou that hast ravish'd nature of a secret 
That maketh thee her very paragon : 
She can but create gold, and so canst thou : 
But she doth bury it in mire and mirk. 
Within the unsunn'd bowels of the earth : 
But thou dost set it on the face of the world. 
Making it shame its old and sullen darkness. 

FAZIO. 

Fair sir, this cataract of courtesy 
O'erwhelms my weak and unhabituate ears. 
If I may venture such uncivil ignorance, 
Your quality ? 

FALSETTO. 

I, my good lord, am one 
Have such keen eyesight for my neighbours' virtues, 
And such a doting love for excellence, 
That when I see a wise man, or a noble, 
Or wealthy, as I ever hold it pity 
Man should be blind to his own merits, words 
Slide from my lips ; and J do mirror him 
In the clear glass of my poor eloquence. 

FAZIO. 

In coarse and honest phraseology, 
A flatterer. 

FALSETTO. 

Flatterer ! Nay, the word 's grown gross. 
An apt discourser upon things of honour. 
Professor of art Panegyrical. 
'T were ill were I a hawk to see such bravery, 
And not a thrush to sing of it. Wealth, sir. 
Wealth is the robe and outward garb of man ; 
The setting to the rarer jewelry. 
The soul's unseen and inner qualities. 
And then, my lord, philosophy I 't is that, 
The stamp and impress of our divine nature. 
By which we know that we are Gods, and are so. 
But wealth and wisdom in one spacious breast I 



Who would not hymn so rare and rich a wedding ? 
Who would not serve within the gorgeous palace. 
Glorified by such strange and admired inmates ? 

FAZIO (aside.) 
Now the poor honest Fazio had disdain'd 
Such scurvy fellowship ; howbeit. Lord Fazio 
Must lacquey his new state with these base jackals. 

(To him.) 
Fair sir, you '11 honour me with your company. 

{To Dandolo.) 
May I make bold, sir, with your state and title ? 

DANDOLO. 

Oh, my lord, by the falling of your robe. 

Your cloth of gold one whole hair's-breadlh too low, 

'T is manifest you know not Signior Dandolo. 

FAZIO. 

A pitiable lack of knowledge, sir ! 

DANDOLO. 

My lord, thou hast before thee in thy presence 
The mirror of the court, the very calendar 
That rules the swift revolving round of fashion ; 
Doth tell what hues do suit what height o' the sun ; 
When your spring pinks should banish from the court 
Your sober winter browns; when July heat 
Doth authorize the gay and flaunting yellows ; — 
The court thermometer, that doth command 
Your three-piled velvet abdicate its state 
For the airy satins. Oh, my lord, you are too late. 
At least three days, with your Venetian tissue. 

FAZIO. 

I sorrow, sir, to merit your rebuke 
On point so w'eighty. 

DANDOLO. 

Ay, signior, I'm paramount 
In all aflfairs of boot, and spur, and hose ; 
In matters of the robe and cap supreme; 
In ruff disputes, my lord, there's no appeal 
From my irrefragibilily. 

FAZIO. 

Sweet si', 
I fear me, such despotic rule and sway 
Over the persons of our citizens 
Must be of danger to our state of Florence. 

DANDOLO. 

Good sooth, my lord, I am a very tyrant. 

Why, if a senator should presume to wear 

A cloak of fur in June, I should indict him 

Guilty of leze-majestc against my kingship : 

They call me Dandolo, the King of Fashions — 

The whole empire of dress is my dominion. 

Why, if our Duke should wear an ill-grain'd colour 

Against my positive enactment, though 

His state might shield him from the palpable shame 

Of a rebuke, yet, my good lord, opinion, 

Public opinion, would hold Signior Dandolo 

Merciful in his silence. 

FAZIO. 

A Lycurgus ! 

DANDOLO. 

Good, my lord ! dignity must be upheld 
On the strong pillars of severity. 
Your cap, my lord, a Uttle to the north-east, 
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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And your sword — thus, my lord — pointed out this 
way, [Adjusting him. 

In an equilateral triangle. Nay, 
Kay, on my credit, my good lord, this hose 
Is a fair wooll The ladies, sir, the ladies 
(For I foresee you '11 be a ruling planet), 
Must not be taught any heretical fancies. 
Fantastical infringements of my codes — 
Your lordship must give place to Signior Dandolo 
About their persons. 

FAZIO. 

Gentle sir, the ladies 
Must be too deeply, irresistibly yours. 

DANDOLO. 

Ko, signior, no ; I 'm not one of the gallants 
That pine for a fair lip, or eye, or cheek, 
Or that poetical treasure, a true heart 
But, my lord, a fair-order'd head-dress makes me 
As love-sick as a dove at maiing-time : 
A tasteful slipper is my soul's delight. 
Oh, I adore a robe that drops and floats 
As it were lighter than the air around it; 
I dote upon a stomacher to distraction, 
AVhen the gay jewels, gracefully disposed. 
Make it a zone of stars : and then a fan. 
The elegant motion of a fan, is murder, 
Positive murder to my poor weak senses. 
FAZIO (turning to Philario.) 
But here 's a third : the Improvisatore, 
Gentle Philario, lurjis, methinks, behind. 

PHILARIO. 

Most noble lord ! it were his loftiest boast 

To wed your honours to his harp. To hymn 

The finder of the philosophic stone. 

The sovereign prince of alchymists ; 'twould make 

The cold verse-mechanist, the nice balancer 

Of curious words and fair compacted phrases, 

Burst to a liquid and melodious flow. 

Rapturous and ravishing but in praise of thee ! 

But I, my lord, that have the fluent vein, 

The rapid rush — r- 

FAZIO. 

Fie, sir ! O fie ! 't is fulsome. 
Sir, there 's a soil fit for that rank weed flattery 
To trail its poisonous and obscure clusters: 
A poet's soul should bear a richer fruitage — 
The aconite grew not in Eden. Thou, 
That thou, with lips tipt with the fire of heaven, 
Th' excursive eye, that in its earth-wide range 
Drinivs in the grandeur and the loveliness 
That breathes along this high-wrought world of man; 
Thou hast within thee apprehensions strong 
Of all that 's pure and passionless and heavenly — 
That thou, a vapid and a mawkish parasite, 
Shouldst pipe to that witch Fortune's favourites! 
'T is coarse — 't is sickly — 'I is as though the eagle 
Should spread his sail-broad wings to flap a dunghill; 
As though a pale and withering pestilence 
Should ride the golden chariot of the sun; 
As one should use the language of the gods 
To chatter loose and ribald brothelry. 

PHILARIO. 

My lord, I thank thee for that noble chiding — 



Oh, my lord, 'tis the curse and brand of poesy, 

That it must trim its fetterless free plumes 

To the gross fancies of the humoursome age; 

That it must stoop from its bold heights to court 

Liquorish opinion, whose aye-wavering breath 

Is to it as the precious air of life. 

Oh, in a capering, chambering, wanton land. 

The lozel's song alone gains audience. 

Fine loving ditties, sweet to sickliness ; 

The languishing and luscious touch alone, 

Of all the full harp's ecstasies, can detain 

The pall'd and pamper'd ear of Italy. 

But, my lord, we have deeper mysteries 

For the initiate Hark ! — it bursts ! — it flows ! 

Song by Philario. 

Rich and royal Italy! 

Dominion's lofty bride ! 

Earth deem'd no loss of pride 
To be enslaved by thee. 
From broad Euphrates' bank. 

When the sun look'd through the gloom, 

Thy eagle's golden plume 
His orient splendour drank; 
And when at eve he set 

Far in the chamber'd west. 
That bird of brilliance yet 

Bathed in his gorgeous rest. 

Sad and sunken Italy ! 

The plunderer's common prey! 

When saw the eye of day 
So very a slave as thee ? 
Long, long a bloody stage 

For petty kinglings tame. 

Their miserable game 
Of puny war to wage. 
Or from the northern star 

Come haughty despots down. 
With iron hand to share 

Thy bruised and broken crown. 

Fair and fervid Italy! 

Lady of each gentler art. 

Yet couldst thou lead the heart 
In mild captivity. 
Warm Raphael's Virgin sprung 

To worship and to love. 

The enamour'd air above 
Rich clouds of music hung, 
Thy poets bold and free 

Did noble wrong to time. 
In their high rhymed majesty 

Ravishing thy clime. 

Loose and languid Italy ! 

Where now the magic pow'r 

That in thy doleful hour 
Made a queen of thee ? 
The pencil cold and dead. 

Whose lightest touch was life; 

The old immortal strife 
Of thy high poets fled. 

256 



FAZIO. 



247 



From her inglorious urn 

Will Italy arise ? 
Will golden days return 

'Neath the azure of her skies ? 

This is done, oh, this is done. 
When the broken land is one ; 
This shall be, oh, this shall be, 
When the slavish land is free. 



SCENE 11. 

The Public Walks of Florence. 

Fazio, Falsetto, Dandolo, Philario. 

falsetto. 
Yonder, my lord, is the Lady Aldabella, 
The star of admiration to all Florence. 

DAXDOLO. 

There, my lord, there is a fair drooping robe — 
Would that I were a breath of wind to float it ! 

FAZIO. 

Gentlemen, by your leave I would salute her : 
You'll meet me anon in the Piazza. 

[Exeunt all but Fazio. 
Now, lofty woman, we are equal now, 
And I will front thee in thy pitch of pride. 

Enter Aldabella. She speaks, after a salutation on 

each side. 
Oh, thou and I, Sir, when we met of old, 
Were not so distant, nor so chill. My lord — 
I had forgot, my lord. You dawning signiors 
Are jealous of your state ; you great philosophers 
Walk not on earth ; and we poor grovelling beings, 
If we would win your eminent regards, 
Must meet ye i' the air. Oh, it sits well 
This scorn, it looks so grave and reverend. 

FAZIO. 

Is scorn in Lady Aldabella's creed 
So monstrous and heretical ? 

ALDABELLA. 

Again, 
Treason again, a most irreverent laugh, 
A traitorous jest before so learn 'd a sage : — 
But I may joy in thy good fortune, Fazio. 

FAZIO. 

In sooth, good fortune, if 'tis worth thy joy, 
The haughty Lady Aldabella's joy. 

ALDABELLA. 

Nay, an thou hadst not dash'd so careless off 
My bounteous offering, I had said — 

FAZIO. 

What, lady ? 

ALDABELLA 

Oh nought— mere sound — mere air — Thou'rt married, 

Fazio : 
And is thy bride a jewel of the first water? 
I know thou wilt say, ay ; 't is an old tale. 
Thy fond lip-revel on a lady's beauties: 
Methinks I 've heard thee descant upon loveliness, 
Till the full ears were drunken with sweet sounds. 
But never let me see her, Fazio; never. 

21 * 



FAZIO. 

And why not, lady ? She is exquisite. 
Bashfully, humbly exquisite ; yet Florence 
May be as proud of her, as of the richest. 
That fire her with the lustre of their state. 
And why not, lady ? 

ALDABELLA. 

Why ! I know not why — 
Oh your philosophy, 'tis ever curious ; 
Poor lady Nature must tell all, and clearly. 
To its inquisitorship. — We 'II not think on't: 
It fell from me un'wares ; words will start forth. 
When the mind wandei-s. — Oh no, not because 
She 8 merely lovely : — but we '11 think no more 

on 't. — 
Didst hear the act ? 

FAZIO. 

Lady, what act? 

ALDABELLA. 

The act 
Of the great Duke of Florence and his Senate, 
Entitled against turtle doves in poesy. 
Henceforth that useful bird is interdict. 
As the mild emblem of true constancy. 
There 's a new word found ; 'tis pure Tuscan too; 
Fazio's to fill the blank up, if it chime ; 
If not. Heaven help the rhymester. 

FAZIO {apart.) 
With what an airy and a sparkling grace 
The language glances from her silken lips! 
Her once loved voice how exquisite it sounds. 
E'en like a gentle music heard in childhood ! 

ALDABELLA. 

Why yes, my lord, in these degenerate days 
Constancy is so rare a virtue, angels 
Come down to gaze on 't: it makes the world proud. 
Who would be one o' the many ? Why, our Florence 
Will blaze with the miracle. 'Tis true, 'tis true. 
The odour of the rose grows faint and sickly, 
And joys are finest by comparison. — 
But what is that to the majestic pride 
Of being the sole true phosnix ? 

FAZIO. 

Gentle lady. 
Thou speak'st as if that smooth word constancy 
Were hareh and brassy sounding in thy ears. 

ALDABELLA. 

No, no, signior; your good old-fangled virtues 
Have gloss enough for me, had it been my lot 
To be a miser's treasure : if his eyes 
Ne'er open'd but on me, I ne'er had wept 
At such a pleasant faithful avarice. 

FAZIO. 

Lady, there w-as a time when I did dream 
Of playing the miser to another treasure. 
One not less precious than thy stately self 

ALDABELLA. 

Oh yes, my lord, oh yes ; the tale did run 
That thou and I did love : so ran the tale. 
That thou and I should have been wed — the tale 
Ran so, my lord. — Oh memorj', memory, memory.' 
It is a bitter pleasure, but 'tis pleasure. 
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FAZIO. 

A pleasure, lady! — why then cast me off 

Like an indifferent weed? — with icy scorn 

Why choke the blossom that but woo'd thy sunshine? 

ALDABELLA. 

Ah, what an easy robe is scorn to wear! 
'Tis but to wrinkle up the level brow, 
To arch the pliant eyelash, and Ireeze up 
The passionless and placid orb within — 
Castelli ! oh Castelli ! 

FAZIO. 

Who was he, lady ? 

ALDABELLA. 

One, my good lord, I loved most fondly, fatally. 

FAZIO. 

Then thou didst love? love, Aldabella, truly. 
Fervently, fondly ? — But what's that to me ? 

ALDABELLA. 

Oh yes, my lord, he was a noble gentleman ; 

Thou knovv'st him by his title, Conde d'Orsoa ; 

My nearest kinsman, my good uncle : — I, 

Knowing our passionate and fanciful nature, 

To his sage counsels fetter'd my wild will. 

Proud was he of me, deem'd me a fit mate 

For highest princes ; and his honest flatteries 

So pamper'd me, the fatal duteousness 

So grew upon me — Fazio, dost thou think 

My colour wither'd since we parted? Gleam 

Mine eyes as they were wont? — Or doth the outside 

Still wear a lying smooth indifference. 

While the unseen heart is haggard wan with woe ? 

FAZIO. 

Is 't possible ? And didst thou love me, lady ? 
Though it be joy vain and unprofitable 
As is the sunshine to a dead man's eyes, 
Pleasureless from his impotence of pleasure ; 
Tell me and truly — 

ALDABELLA. 

My grave sir confessor, 
On with thy hood and cowl. — So thou wouldst hear 
Of pining days and discontented nights ; 
Ah me 's and doleful airs to my sad lute. 
Fazio, they suffer most who utter least. — 
Heaven, what a babbling traitor is the tongue ! 
Would not the air freeze up such sinful sound ? — 
Oh no, thou heard'st it not. Ah me ! and thou, 
1 know, wilt surfeit the coarse common ear 
With the proud Arabella's fall. — Betray me not; 
Be charier of her shame than Aldabella. 

[Fazio falls on his knees to her. 
My lord ! my lord ! 't is public here — no more — 
I 'm staid for at my palace by the Arno. 
Farewell, my lord, farewell ! — Betray me not: — 
But never let me see her, Fazio, never. 

FAZIO (solus.) 
Love me ! — to suffering love me ! — why her love 
Might draw a brazen statue from its pedestal. 
And make its yellow veins leap up with life. 
Fair Chastity, thou hast two juggling fiends 
Caballing for thy jewel: one within. 
And that's a mild and melting devil. Love ; 
Th' other without, and that 's a fair rich gentleman, 
Giraldi Fazio : they 're knit in a league. 



And Ihou, thou snowy and unsociable virtue, 
May'st lose no less a votaress from thy nunnery 
Than the most beautiful proud Aldabella. 
Had I been honest, 'twere indeed to fall ; 
But now 'tis but a step down the declivity. 
Bianca! but Bianca! — bear me up. 
Bear me up, in the trammels of thy fondness 
Bind thou my slippery soul. Wrong thee, Bianca ? 
Way, nay, that 's deep indeed ; fathomless deep 
In the black pit of infamy and sin : 
5[ am not so weary yet of the upper air. 
Wrong thee, Bianca ? No, not for the earth ; 
Not lor earth's brightest, not for Aldabella. 



SCENE in. 

Palace of Fazio. 
Fazio and Bianca. 

FAZIO. 

Dost thou love me, Bianca ? 

BIANCA. 

There 's a question 
For a philosopher! — Why, I 've answer 'd it 
For two long years ; and, oh, for many more, 
It will not stick upon my lips to answer thee. 

FAZIO. 

Thou 'rt in the fashion, then. The court, Bianca, 
The ladies of the court, find me a fair gentleman ; 
Ay, and a dangerous wit too, that smites smartly. 

BIANCA. 

And thou believest it all ! 

FAZIO. 

Why, if the gallants, 
The lordly and frank spirits of the time. 
Troop around thee with gay rhymes on thy beauties, 
Tinkling their smooth and amorous flatteries, 
Shalt thou be then a solemn infidel? 

BIANCA. 

I shall not heed them ; my poor beauty needs 
Only one flatterer. 

FAZIO. 

Ay, but they '11 press on thee. 
And force their music into thy deaf ears. 
Think ye, ye should be coy, and calm, and cold ? 

BIANCA. 

Oh, no! — I fear me a discourteous laugh 
Might be their guerdon for their lavish lying. 

FAZIO. 

But if one trip upon your lip, or wind 
Your fingers in his sportive hand, think yo 
Ye could endure it? 

BIANCA. 

Fazio, thou wrong'st me 
With such dishonest questionings. My lord, 
There 's such an awe in virtue, it can make 
The anger of a sleek smooth brow like mine 
Strike the hot libertine to dust before me. 
He 'd dare to dally with a fire in his hand. 
Kiss ragged briars with his unholy lips. 
Ere with his rash assault attaint my honour. 
2i>8 



FAZIO. 



249 



FAZIO. 

But if ye see me by a noble lady, 

Whispering as though she were my shrine, whereon 

I lay my odorous incense, and her beauty 

Grow riper, richer at my cherishing praise ; 

If she lean on me with a fond round arm, 

If her eye drink the light from out mine eyes, 

And if her lips drop sounds for my ear only ; 

Thou 'It arch thy moody brow, look at me gravely. 

With a pale anger on thy silent cheek. 

'Tis out of keeping, 'tis not the court fashion — 

We must forego this clinging and the clasping; 

Be cold, and strange, and courteous to each other; 

And say, '• How doth my lord ?" " How slept my 

lady ?" 
As though we dwelt at opposite ends o' the city. 

BIA.NCA. 

What hath distemper'd thee? — This is unnatural; 
Thou couldst not talk thus in thy steadfast senses. 
Fazio, thou hast seen Aldabella! 

FAZIO. 

Well, 
She is no basilisk — there 's no death in her eyes. 

BIANCA. 

Ay, Fazio, but there is ; and more than death — 
A death beyond the grave — a death of sin — 
A howling, hideous, and eternal death — 

Death the flesh shrinks from. No, thou must not 

see her ! 
Nay, I 'm imperative — thou 'rt mine, and shall not. 

FAZIO. 

Shalt not I — Dost think me a thick-blooded slave. 
To say " Amen" unto thy positive " shalt not ?'' 
The hand upon a dial, only to point 
Just as your humorous ladyship choose to shine ? 

BIA.NCA. 

Fazio, thou sett'st a fever in my brain ; 
My very lips burn, Fazio, at the thought : 
I had rather thou wert in thy winding-sheet 
Than that bad woman's arms; I had rather grave- 
worms 
Were on thy lips than that bad woman's kisses. 

FAZIO. 

Howbeit, there is no blistering in their taste : 
There is no suffocation in those arms. 

BIA.NCA. 

Take heed ; we are passionate ; our milk of love 

Doth turn to wormwood, and that 's bitter drinking. 

The fondest are most frenetic : where the fire 

Burneih intensest, there the inmate pale 

Doth dread the broad and beaconing conflagration. 

If that ye cast us to the winds, the winds 

Will give us their unruly restless nature ; 

We whirl and whirl; and where we settle, Fazio, 

But he that ruleth the mad winds can know. 

If ye do drive the love out of my soul, 

That is its motion, being, and its life, 

There'll be a conflict strange and horrible. 

Among all fearful and ill-visaged fiends, 

For the blank void ; and their mad revel there 

Will make me — oh, I know not what — hate thee I — 

Oh, no! — 1 could not hate thee, F'azio: 

Nay, nay, my Fazio, 't is not come to that ; 



Mine arms, mine arms, shall say the next " shall not ;" 
I '11 never startle more thy peevish ears, 
But I '11 speak to thee with my positive lips. 

[Kissing and clinging to him. 

FAZIO. 

Oh, what a wild and wayward child am I ! — 

Like the hungry fool, that in his moody fit 

Dash'd from his lips his last delicious morsel. 

I 'II see her once, Bianca, and but once ; 

And then a rich and breathing tale I '11 tell her 

Of our full happiness. If she be angel, 

'T will be a gleam of Paradise to her, 

And she 'II smile at it one of those soft smiles, 

That makes the air seem sunny, blithe, and balrny. 

If she be devil Nay, but that 's too ugly ; 

The fancy doth rebel at it, and shrink 
As from a serpent in a knot of flowers. 
Devil and Aldabella! — Fie! — They sound 
Like nightingales and screech-owls heard together. 
What! must I still have tears to kiss away? — 
I will return — Good night! — It is but once. 
See, thou 'st the taste o' my lips now at our parting; 
And when we meet again, if they be tainted. 
Thou shalt — oh no, thou shalt not, canst not hate me. 

[ExeunC. 



SCENE IV. 
Palace o/" Aldabella. 

ALDABELLA. 

My dainty bird doth hover round the lure. 
And I must hood him with a skilful hand : 
Rich and renown'd, he must be in my train, 
Or Florence will turn rebel to my beauty. 

Enter Clara, Fazio behind. 

ALDABELLA gOeS On. 

Oh, Clara, have ye been to the Ursulines? 
What says my cousin, the kind Lady Abbess? 

CLARA. 

She says, my lady, that to-morrow noon 
Noviciates are admitted; but she wonders. 
My Lady Abbess wonders, and I too 
Wonder, my lady, what can make ye fancy 
Those damp and dingy cloisters. Oh, my lady ! 

They '11 make ye cut off all this fine dark hair 

Why, all the signiors in the court would quarrel. 
And cut each other's throats for a loose hair of it. 

ALDABELLA. 

Ah me I what heeds it where I linger out 

The remnant of my dark and despised life? 

Clara, thou weariest me. 

CLARA. 

Oh, but, my lady, 
I saw their dre.ss : it was so coarse and hard-grain'd, 
I 'm sure 't would fret your ladyship's soft skin 
Like thorns and brambles ; and besides, the make 

on 't ! — 
A vine-dresser's wife at market looks more dainty. 

ALDABELLA. 

Then my tears will not stain it. Oh, 't is rich enough 
259 



250 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For lean and haggard sorrow. {Appearing to perceive 

Fazio, exit Clara.) Oh, my lord ! 
You're timely come to take a long farewell. 
Our convent gates are rude, and black, and close ; 
Our Ursuline veils of such a jealous woof. 
There must be piercing in those curious eyes, 
Would know if the skin beneath be swarth or snowy. 

FAZIO. 

A convent for the brilliant Aldabella! 

The mirror of all rival lovelinesses, 

The harp to which all gay thoughts lightly dance, 

Mew'd in the drowsy silence of a cloister ! 

ALDABELLA. 

Oh, what regards it, if a blind man lie 
On a green lawn or on a steamy moor ! 
What heeds it to the dead and wither'd heart. 
Whose faculty of rapture is grown sere, 
Hath lost distinction between foul and fair, 
Whether it house in gorgeous palaces, 
Or 'mid wan graves and haggard signs of care ! 
Oh, there 's a grief, so with the threads of being 
Piavell'd and twined, it sickens every sense : 
Then is the swinging and monotonous bell 
Musical as the rich harp heard by moonlight; 
Then are the limbs insensible if they rest 
On the coarse pallet or the pulpy down. 

FAZIO. 

What mean ye, lady ? — thou bewilder'st me. 
What grief so wanton and luxurious 
Would choose the Lady Aldabella's bosom 
To pillow on ? 

ALDABELLA. 

Oh, my lord, untold love 

Nay, Fazio, gaze not on me so ; my tongue 

Can scarcely move for the fire within my cheeks — 

It cankereth, it consumeth, untold love. 

But if it burst its secret prison-house, 

And venture on the broad and public air. 

It leaguelh with a busy fiend call'd Shame ; 

And they both dog their game, till misery 

Fastens upon it with a viper's fang, 

And rings its being with its venomous coil. 

FAZIO. 

Misery and thee ! — oh, 't is unnatural I — 

Oh, yoke thee to that thing of darkness, misery ! — 

That Ethiop, that grim Moor! — it were to couple 

The dove and kite within one loving leash. 

It must not be ; nay, ye must be divorced. 

ALDABELLA. 

Ah no, my lord ! we are too deeply pledged. 

Dost thou remember our old poet's* legend 

Over Hell gates — " Hope comes not here ?" Where 

hope 
Comes not, is hell; and what have I to hope ? 

FAZIO. 

VV'hat hast to hope ? — Thou 'rt strangely beautiful — 

ALDABELLA. 

Wouldst thou leave flattery thy last ravishing sound 
Upon mine ears ? — 'T is kind, 't is fatally kind. 



* Dante. 



FAZIO. 

Oh, no ! we must not part, we must not part. 
I came to tell thee something : what, I know not. 
I only know one word that should have been ; 
And that Oh! if thy skin were seam'd with wrin- 
kles. 
If on thy cheek sate sallow hollowness. 
If thy warm voice spake shrieking, harsh, and shrillf 
But to that breathing form, those ripe round lips, 
Like a full parted cherry, those dark eyes, 

Rich in such dewy languors I'll not say it 

Nay, nay, 't is on me now ! — Poison 's at work ! 
Now listen to me, lady We must love. 

ALDABELLA. 

Love ! — Ay, my lord, as for as honesty. 

FAZIO. 

Honesty ! — 'T is a stale and musty phrase ; 

At least at court: and why should we be traitors 

To the strong tyrant Custom ? 

ALDABELLA. 

My lord Fazio — 
Oh, said I my lord Fazio? — thou 'It betray me: 

The bride — the wife — she that I mean My lord, 

I am nor splenetic nor envious ; 

But 't is a name I dare not trust my lips with. 

FAZIO. 

Bianca, oh Bianea is her name ; 

The mild Bianca, the soft fond Bianca. 

Oh to that name, e'en in the Church of God, 

I pledged a solemn faith. 

ALDABELLA. 

Within that Church 
Barren and solitary my sad name 
Shall sound, when the pale nun profess'd doth wed 
That her cold bridegroom Solitude: and yet — 
Her right — ere she had seen you, we had loved. 

FAZIO {franlichj.) 
Why should we dash the goblet from our lips, 
Because the dregs may have a smack of bitter? 
Why should that pale and clinging consequence 
Thrust itself ever 'twi.xt us and our joys? 

ALDABELLA. 

My lord, 'tis well our convent walls are high. 
And our gates massy ; else ye raging tigers 
Might rush upon us simple maids unveil'd. 

FAZIO. 

A veil ! a veil ! why Florence will be dark 
At noonday : or thy beauty will fire up, 
By the contagion of its own bright lustre. 
The dull dead flux to so intense a brilliance, 
'T will look like one of those rich purple clouds 
On the pavilion of the setting sun. 

ALDABELLA. 

My lord, I 've a poor banquet here within ; 
Will 't please ye taste it ? 

FAZIO. 

Ay, wine, wine ! ay, wine ! 
I '11 drown thee, thou officious preacher, here ! {Clasp- 
ing his forehead.) 
Wine, wine ! [Exeunt. 

2(30 



FAZIO. 



251 



ACT III. — SCENE I. 
Palace of Fazio. 

BIANCA. 

Not all the night, not all the long, long night. 

Not come to me ! not send to me ! not think on me! 

Like an unrighteous and unburied ghost, 

I wander up and down these long arcades. 

Oh, in our old poor narrow home, if haply 

He linger'd late abroad, domestic things 

Close and familiar crowded all around me ; 

The ticking of the clock, the flapping motion 

Of the green lattice, the grey curtains' folds, 

The hangings of the bed myself had wrought, 

Yea, e'en his black and iron crucibles, 

Were to me as my friends. But here, oh here, 

Where all is coldly, comfortlessly costly. 

All strange, all new in uncouth gorgeousness. 

Lofty and long, a wider space for misery — 

E'en my own footsteps on these marble floors 

Are unaccustom'd unfamiliar sounds. — 

Oh, I am here so wearily miserable, 

That I should welcome my apostate Fazio, 

Though he were fresh from Aldabella's arms. 

Her arms ! — her viper coil ! 1 had forsworn 

That thought ; lest he should come, and find me mad. 
And so go back again, and I not know it. 
Oh that I were a child to play with toys, 
Fix my whole soul upon a cup and ball — 
Oh any pitiful poor subterfuge, 
A moment to distract my busy spirit 
From its dark dalliance with that cursed image! 
I have tried all : all vainly — Now, but now 
I went in to my children. The first sounds 
They murmur'd in their evil-dreaming sleep 
Was a faint mimicry of the name of father. 
I could not kiss them, my lips were so hot. 
The very household .slaves are leagued against me. 
And do beset me with their wicked floutings, 
" Comes my lord home to-night ?" — and when I say, 
" I know not," their coarse pity makes my heart- 
strings 
Throb with the agony. — {Enter Piero.) — Well, what 

of my lord ? 
Nay, tell it with thy lips, not with thy visage. 
Thou raven, croak it out if it be evil : 
If it be good, 1 'II fall and worship thee ; 
'T is the office and the ministry of gods 
To speak good tidings to distracted spirits. 

PIERO. 

Last night my lord did feast — 

BIANCA. 

Speak it at once — 
Where? where? — I'll wring it from thy lips. — 
Where ? where ? 

PIF.RO. 

Lady, at the Marchesa Aldabella'a. 

BIANCA. 

Thou liest, false slave : 't was at the Ducal Palace, 
'T was at the arsenal with the officers, 
'Twas with the old rich senator — him — him — him — 
3G 



The man with a brief name; 't was gaming, dicing, 

Riotously drinking. — Oh it was not there ,• 

'T was any where but there— or if it was, 

Why like a sly and creeping adder sting me 

With thy black tidings ? — Nay, nay : good my friend ; 

Here's money for those harsh intemperate words. — 

But he's not there ; 't was some one of the gallants, 

With dress and stature like my Fazio. 

Thou wert mistaken : — no, no ; 't was not Fazio. 

PIERO. 

It grieves me much, but, lady, 'tis my fear 
Thou'lt find it but too true. 

BIANCA. 

Hence ! hence ! Avaunt, 
With thy cold courteous face! Thou seest I'm 

wretched : 
Doth it content thee? Gaze — gaze .'—perchance 
Ye would behold the bare and bleeding heart. 
With all its throbs, its agonies. — Oh Fazio ! 
Oh Fazio! is her smile more sweet than mine? 
Or her .soul fonder ? — Fazio, my lord Fazio ! 
Before the face of man mine own. mine only ; 
Before the face of Heaven Bianca's Fazio, 
Not Aldabella's. — Ah, that I should live 
To question it! — Now, henceforth all our joys. 
Our delicate indearments, are all poison'd. 
Ay! if he speak my name with his fond voice. 
It will be with the same tone that to her 
He murmur'd hers : — it will be, or 't will seem so. 
If he embrace me, 'twill be with those arms 
In which he folded her : and if he kiss me. 
He'll pause, and think which of the two is sweeter 

PIERO. 

Nay, good my lady, give not entertainment 

To such sick fancies ; think on lighter matters. 

I heard strange news abroad : the Duke's in council. 

Debating on the death of old Barlolo, 

The grey lean usurer. He's been long abroad. 

And died, they think. 

BIANCA. 

Well, sir, and what of that? 
And have I not the privilege of sorrow, 
Without a menial's staring eye upon me ? 
Who sent thee thus to charter my free thoughts. 
And tell them where to shrink, and where to pause? 
Officious slave, away! — {Exit.) — Ha! what saidst 

thou ? 
Bartolo's death I and the Duke in his council ! — 
I'll rend him from her, though she wind around him. 
Like the vine round the elm. I'll pluck him off, 
Though the life crack at parting. — No, no pause ; 
For if there is, I shall be tame and timorous : 
That milk-faced mercy will come whimpering to me, 
And I shall sit and meekly, miserably 
Weep o'er my wrongs. — Ha ! that her soul were 

fond 
And fervent as mine own ! I would give worlds 
To see her as he's rent and rack'd from her. 
Oh, but she's cold ; she cannot, will not feel. 
It is but half revenge : her whole of sorrow 
Will be a drop to my consummate agony. — 
Away, away : Oh had I wings to waft me ! 
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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SCENE II. 
Duke and his Council. 

DUKE. 

'Tis passing strange, a man of such lean habits, 
Wealth flowing to him in a steady current, 
Winds wafting it unto him from all quarters, 
Through all his seventy toilsome years of life. 
And yet his treasury so spare and meagre ; 
Signior Gonsalvo, were the voice that told us 
Less tried and trusty than thine own, our lailh 
Would be a rebel to such marvellous fact. 

GONSALVO. 

Well may your Highness misdoubt me, myself 

Almost misdoubting mine own positive senses. 

No sign was there of outward violence. 

All in a state of orderly misery, 

No trace of secret inroad ; yet, my liege. 

The mountains of his wealth were puny mole-hills, 

A few stray ducats ; piles indeed of parchments, 

Mortgages, deeds, and lawsuits heaped to the roof. 

Enough to serve the armies of all Tuscany 

At least for half a century with new drum-heads. 

AURIO. 

Haply, my liege, he may have gone abroad. 
And borne his riches with him. 

DUKE. 

Signior Aurio, 
That surmise flavours not of your known wisdom. 
His argosies encumber all our ports. 
His unsold bales rot in the crowded wharfs ; 
The interest of a hundred usuries 
Lieth unclaim'd. — Besides, he hath not left 
Our city for these twenty years ; — a flight 
So unprepared and wanton suits not well 
Your slow and heavy-laden usurer. 

Enter Antonio. 

ANTONIO. 

My liege, a lady in the antechamber 
Boasts knowledge that concerns your this day's coun- 
cil. 

DUKE. 

Admit her. — (Enter Bianca.) — How! what know'st 

thou of the death 
Of old Bartolo? — be he dead in sooth ? 
Or of his riches ! 

BIANCA. 

The east side of the fountain. 
In the small garden of a lowly house. 
By the Franciscan convent, the green herbs 
Grow boon and freely, the manure is rich 
Around their roots : dig there, and you'll be wiser. 

DUKE. 

Who tenanted this house ? 

bianca. 

Giraldi Fazio. 

DUKE. 

What of his wealth? 

BIANCA. 

There's one in Florence knows 
More secrets than beseems an honest man. 

DUKE. 

And who is he ? 



BIANCA. 

Giraldi Fazio. 

GONSALVO. 

My liege, I know him ; 't is the new-sprung signior. 
This great philosopher. I ever doubted 
His vaunted manufactory of gold, 
Work'd by some strange machinery. 

DUKE. 

Theodore, 
Search thou the garden that this woman speaks of. 
Captain Antonio, be 't thy charge to attach 
With speed the person of this Fazio. 

BIANCA (rushing forward to AntonIO). 
You '11 find him at the Marchesa Aldabella's : 
Bring him away — no mercy — no delay — 
Nayj not an instant — not time for a kiss, 
A parting kiss. (Aside.) Now have I widow'd her. 
As she has widow'd me ! Now come what will. 
Their curst entwining arms are riven asunder. 

DUKE. 

And thou, thou peremptory summoner ! 

Most thirsty after justice ! speak Thy name ? 

BIANCA. 

Bianca. 

DUKE. 

Thy estate wedded or single ? 

BIANCA. 

My lord 

DUKE. 

Give instant answer to the court. 

BIANCA. 

Oh ! wedded, but most miserably single. 

DUKE. 

Woman, thou palterest with our dignity. 

Thy husband's name and quality ? — Why shakest thou, 

And draw'st the veil along thy moody brow. 

As thou too wert a murderess ? — Speak, and quickly. 

BIANCA (faltering). 
Giraldi Fazio. 

DUKE. 

'T is thy husband then — 
Woman, take heed, if, petulant and rash. 
Thou wouldst abuse the righteous sword of law. 
That brightest in the armoury of man, 
To a peevish instrument of thy light passions. 
Or furtherance of some close and secret guilt : 
Take heed, 't is in the heaven stamp'd roll of sins, 

To bear false witness Oh, but 'gainst thy husband> 

Thy bosom's lord, flesh of thy flesh ! — To set 

The bloodhounds of the law upon his track ! 

If thou speak'st true, stern justice will but blush 

To be so cheer'd upon her guilty prey : 

If it be false, thou givest to flagrant sin 

A heinous immortality. This deed 

Will chronicle thee, woman, to all ages. 

In human guilt a portent and an era : 

'T is of those crimes, whose eminent fame Hell joys at, 

And the celestial angels, that look on it, 

Wish their keen airy vision dim and narrow. 

Enter Theodore. 
My liege, e'en where she said, an unstripp'd corpse 
Lay carelessly inearth'd : old weeds hung on it, 
Like those that old Bartolo wont to wear ; 
262 



FAZIO. 



253 



And under the left rib a small stiletto, 
Rusted within the pale and creeping flesh. 

Enter Antonio with Fazio. 
My liege, the prisoner. 

DUKE. 

Thou 'rt Giraldi Fazio. 
Giraldi Fazio, thou stand's! here arraign'd, 
That, with presumption impious and accurst, 
Thou hast usurp'd God's high prerogative. 
Making thy fellow-mortal's life and death 
Wait on thy moody and diseased passions ; 
That with a violent and untimely steel 
Hast set abroach the blood, that should have ebb'd 
In calm and natural current : to sum all 
In one wild name — a name the pale air freezes at, 
And every cheek of man sinks in with horror — 
Thou art a cold and midnight murderer. 

FAZIO. 

My liege, 1 do beseech thee, argue not, 

From the thick clogging of my clammy breath, 

Aught but a natural and instinctive dread 

Of such a bloody and ill-sounding title. 

My liege, I do beseech thee, whate'er reptile 

Hath cast this filthy slime of slander on me, 

Set him before me face to face : the (Ire 

Of my just anger shall burn up his heart, 

Make his lip drop, and powerless shuddering 

Creep o'er his noisome and corrupted limbs, 

Till the coarse lie choke in his wretched throat. 

DUKE. 

Thou 'rt bold. — But know ye aught of old Bartolo ? 
Methinks, for innocence, thou 'rt pale and tremulous — 
That name is to thee as a thunderclap ; 

But thou shall have thy wish. Woman, stand forth : 

Nay, cast away thy veil. Look on her, Fazio. 

FAZIO. 

Bianca ! No, it is a horrid vision ! 

And, if I struggle, I shall wake, and find it 

A miscreated mockery of the brain. 

If thou 'rt a fiend, what hellish right hast thou 

To shroud thy leprous and fire-seamed visage 

In lovely lineaments, like my Bianca's ? 

If thou 'rt indeed Bianca, thou wilt wear 

A ring I gave thee at our wedding time. 

In God's name do I bid thee hold it up ; 

And, if thou dost, I '11 be a murderer, 

A slaughterer of whole hecatombs of men, 

So ye will rid me of the hideous sight. 

DUKE. 

Giraldi Fazio, hear the court's award : 
First, on thy evil-gotten wealth the State 
Setteth her solemn seal of confiscation ; 

And for thyself 

BIANCA (rusJting forward). 

Oh, we '11 be poor again ! 
Oh, I forgive thee ! — We '11 be poor and happy ! 
So happy, the dull day shall be too short for us. 
She loved thee, that proud woman, for thy riches ; 
But thou canst tell why I love Fazio. 

DUKE. 

And for thyself— 'T is in the code of Heaven, 
Blood will have blood — the slayer for the slain. 



Death is thy doom — the public, daylight death. 
Thy body do we give unto the wheel : 
The Lord have mercy on thy sinful soul ! 

BIANCA. 

Death !— Death !— I meant not that ! Ye mean not 

that! 
What's all this waste and idle talk of murder? 
He slay a man — with tender hands like his? — 

With delicate mild soul ? Why, his own blood 

Had startled him ! I 've seen him pale and shuddering 

At the sad writhings of a trampled worm : 

I 've seen him brush off with a dainty hand 

A bee that stung him. Oh, why wear ye thus 

The garb and outward sanctity of law ? 

What means that snow upon your reverend brows, 

If that ye have no subtler apprehension 

Of some inherent harmony in the nature 

Of bloody criminal and bloody crime ? 

'T were wise t' arraign the soft and silly lamb 

Of slaughtering his butcher : ye might make it 

As proper a murderer as my Fazio. 

DUKE. 

Woman, th' irrevocable breath of justice 
Wavers not : he must die. 

BIANCA. 

Die! Fazio die ! 

Ye grey and solemn murderers by charter ! 

Ye ermined manslayers! when the tale is rife 

With blood and guilt, and deep and damning. Oh, 

Ye suck it in with cold insatiate thirst : 

But to the plea of mercy ye are stones. 

As deaf and hollow as the unbowell'd winds. 

Oh, ye smooth Christians in your tones and looks, 

But in your hearts as savage as the tawny 

And misbelieving African! ye profane. 

Who say, "God bless him ! God deliver him !" 

While ye are beckoning for the bloody axe. 

To smite the unoffending head ! — his head ! — 

My Fazio's head I — the head this bosom cherish'd 

With its first virgin fondness. 

DUKE. 

Fazio, hear. 
To-morrow's morning sun shall dawn upon thee 
But when he setteth in his western couch. 
He finds thy place in this world void and vacant. 

BIANCA. 

To-morrow morning!— Not to-morrow morning! 
The damning devils give a forced faint pause, 
If the bad soul but feebly catch at heaven. 
But ye, but ye, unshriven, unreconciled. 
With all its ponderous mass of sins hurl down 
The bare and shivering spirit. —Oh, not to-raorrow ! 

DUKE. 

Woman, thou dost outstep all modesty : 
But for strong circumstance that leagues with thee. 
We should contemn thee for a wild mad woman, 
Raving her wayward and unsettled fancies. 

BIANCA. 

Mad ! mad ! — ay, that it is ! — ay, that it is ! 
Is 't to be mad to speak, to move, to gaze. 
But not know how, or why, or whence, or where? 
To see that there are faces all around me, 
Floating within a dim discolour'd haze, 
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254 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet have distinction, vision, but for one ? 

To speak with rapid and continuous flow, , 

Yet know not how the unthought words start from 

me? — 
Oh, I am mad, wildly, intensely mad. 
'T was but last night the moon was at the full ; 
And ye, and ye, the sovereign and the sage. 
The wisdom and the reverence of all Florence, 
E'en from a maniac's dim disjointed tale. 
Do calmly judge away the innocent life. 
The holy human life, the life God gave him. 

DUKE. 

Giraldi Fazio, hast thou aught to plead 
Against the law, that with imperious hand 
Grasps at thy forfeit life ? 

FAZIO. 

My liege, this soul 
Rebels not, nay, repines not at thy sentence ; 
Yet, oh ! by all on earth, by all hereafter. 
All that hath cognizance o'er unseen deeds. 
Blood is a colour stranger to these hands. 
But there are crimes within me, deep and black, 
That with their clamorous and tumultuous voices 
Shout at me, " Thou shouldst die, thy sins are deadly :" 
Nor dare my oppressed heart return, " 'T is false." 

BIANCA. 

But I, I say, 't is false : he is not guilty : 
Not guilty unto death : I say he is not. 
God gave ye hearing, but ye will not hear ; 
God gave ye feeling, but ye will not feel ; 
God gave ye judgment, but ye falsely judge. 

DUKE. 

Captain Antonio, guard thy prisoner. 
If it be true, blood is not on thy soul. 
Yet thou object'st not to the charge of robbery ? 

[Fazio bows. 
Thou dost not. Robbery, by the laws of Florence, 
Is sternly coded as a deadly crime : 
Therefore, I say again, Giraldi Fazio, 
The Lord have mercy on thy sinful soul ! 

[They follow the Duke. 

BIANCA (seizing and detaining Auric). 
My lord ! my lord ! we have two babes at home — 
They cannot speak yet ; but, your name, my lord, 
And they shall lisp it, ere they lisp mine own — 
Ere that poor culprit's yonder, their own father's. 
Befriend us, oh, befriend us ! 'T is a title 
Heaven joys at, and the hard and savage earth 
Doth break its sullen nature to delight in — 

The destitute's sole friend And thou pass too! 

Why, what a common liar was thy face. 

That said the milk of mercy flow'd within thee ! 

Ye 're all alike. — Off! off! — Ye 're all alike. 

[Exeunt all but Fazio, the Officer, and Bianca. 

BIANCA {creeping to Fazio). 
Thou wilt not spurn me, wilt not trample on me. 
Wilt let me touch thee — I, whose lips have slain thee ? 
Oh, look not on me thus with that fond look — 
Pamper me not, for long and living grief 
To prey upon — Oh, curse me, Fazio — 
Kill me with cursing : I am thin and feeble — 
A word will crush me — any thing but kindness. 



FAZIO. 

Mine own Bianca ! I shall need too much mercy 

Or ere to-morrow, to be merciless. 

It was not well, Bianca, in my guiit 

To cut me off — thus early — thus unripe : 

It will be bitter, when the axe falls on me. 

To think whose voice did summon it to its office. — 

No more — no more of that : we all must die. 

Bianca, thou wilt love me when I 'm dead : 

I wrong'd thee, but thou 'It love me when I 'ra dead. 

BIANCA. 

What, kiss me, kiss me, Fazio! — 'tis too much : 
And these warm lips must be cold clay to-morrow. 

ANTONIO. 

Signior, we must part hence. 

BIANCA. 

What ! tear me from hinji, 
When he has but a few short hours to give me ! 
Rob me of them ! — He hath lain delicately : 
Thou wilt not envy me the wretched office 
Of strewing the last pillow he shall lie on — 
Thou wilt not — nay, there 's moisture in thine eye — 
Thou wilt not. 

ANTONIO. 

Lady, far as is the warrant 
Of my stern orders — 

BIANCA. 

Excellent youth ! Heaven thank thee! 
There 's not another heart like thine in Florence. 
We shall not part, we shall not part, my Fazio ! 
Oh, never, never, never — till to-morrow. 

FAZIO (as he leads her out). 
It was not with this cold and shaking hand 
1 led thee virgin to the bridal altar. 

[Exeunt. 



ACT IV. — SCENE L 

A Prison. 

FAZIO and Bianca. 

FAZIO. 

Let 's talk of joy, Bianca : we '11 deceive 
This present and this future, whose grim faces 
Stare at us with such deep and hideous blackness: 
We 'II fly to the past. Dost thou remember, love. 
Those gentle moonlights, when my fond guitar 
Was regular, as convent vesper hymn, 
Beneath thy lattice, sometimes the light dawn 
Came stealing on our voiceless intercourse, 
Soft in its grey and filmy atmosphere ? 

BIANCA. 

Oh yes, oh yes ! — There '11 be a dawn to-morrow 
Will steal upon us. — Then, oh then 

FAZIO. 

Oh, think not on't!- 
And thou remember'st too that beauteous evening 
Upon the Arno; how we sail'd along. 
And laugh'd to see the stately towers of Florence 
Waver and dance in the blue depth beneath us. 
How carelessly thy unretiring hand 
Abandon'd its soft whiteness to my pressure ! 
264 



FAZIO. 



255 



BIANCA. 

Oh yes ! To-morrow evening, if thou close 

Thy clasping hand, mine will not meet it then — 
Thou 'It only grasp the chill and senseless earth. 

FAZIO. 

Thou busy, sad remembrancer of evil ! 

How exquisitely happy have we two 
Sate in the dusky and discolour'd light, 
That flicker'd through our shaking lattice bars! 
Our children at our feet, or on our laps, 
Warm in their brealhing slumbers, or at play 
With rosy laughter on their cheeks ! — Oh God !^ 
Bianca, such a flash of thought crost o'er me, 
I dare not speak it. 

BIAXCA. 

Quick, my Fazio ! 
Quick, let me have 't! — to-morrow thou 'It not speak it. 

FAZIO. 

Oh, what a life must theirs he, those poor innocents! 
When they have grown up to a sense of sorrow — 
Oh, what a feast will they be for rude misery ! 
Honest men's boys and girls, whene'er they mingle, 
Will spurn them with the black and branded title, 
"The murderer's children." Infamy will pin 
That pestilent label on their backs ; the plague-spot 
Will bloat and blister on them till their death-beds; 
And if they beg — for beggars they must be — 
They'll drive them from their doors with cruel jeers 
Upon my riches, villanously style them 
"The children of Lord Fazio, the philosopher." 

BIAi\CA. 

To-morrow will the cry begin, to-morrow. 

It must not be, and I sit idle here. 

Fazio, there must be in this wide, wide city 

Piercing and penetrating eyes for truth, 

Souls not too proud, too cold, too stern for mercy. 

I '11 hunt them out, and swear them to our service. 

1 '11 raise up something — Oh, I know not what 

Shall boldly startle the rank air of Florence 

With proclamation of thy innocence. 

I '11 raise the dead ! I '11 conjure up the ghost 

Of that old rotten thing, Bartolo ; make it 

Cry out i' the market place, " Thou didst not slay 

him!" 
Farewell, farewell! If in the walls of Florence 
Be any thing like hope or comfort, Fazio, 
I '11 clasp it with such strong and steadfast arms, 
I '11 drag it to thy dungeon, and make laugh 
This silence with strange uncouth sounds of joy. 



SCENE II. 

A Street. 

Falsetto, Dandolo, Piiilario. 

falsetto. 
Good Signior Dandolo, here 's a prodigal waste 
Of my iiair speeches to the sage philosopher. 
1 counted on at least a two months' diet. 
Besides stray boons of horses, rings, and jewels. 

DANDOLO. 

Oh my Falsetto, a coat of my fashion 
22 



Come to the wheel ! — it wrings my very heart, 
To fancy how the seams will crack, or haply 
The hangman will be seen in 't I — That I should live 
To be purveyor of the modes to a hangman ! 

Enter Bianca. 

BIANCA. 

They pass me by on the other side of the street ; 
They spurn me from their doors ; they load the air 
With curses that are flung on me : the Palace, 
The Ducal Palace, that should aye be open 
To voice of the distress'd, as is God's heaven. 
Is ring'd around with grim and armed savages, 
That with their angry weapons smite me back. 
As though I came with fire in my hand, to burn 
The royal walls : the children in the streets 
Break off their noisy games to hoot at me ; 
And the dogs from the porches howl me on. 
But here 's a succour. — {To Falsetto.) Oh, good sir, thy 

friend, 
The man thou feastedst with but yesterday. 
He to whose motion thou wast a true shadovi'. 
Whose hand rain'd gifts upon thee — he I mean, 
Fazio, the bounteous, free, and liberal Fazio — 
He 's wrongfully accused, wrongfully doom'd : 
I swear to thee 'tis wrotigfully. — Oh, sir. 
An eloquent honey -dropping tongue like thine. 
How would It garnish up his innocence. 
Till Justice would grow amorous, and embrace it! 

FALSETTO. 

Sweet lady, thou o'ervaluest my poor powers: — 
Any thing in reason to win so much loveliness 
To smile on me — but this were wild and futile. 

BIANCA. 

In reason ? — 'Tis to save a human life — 
Is not that in the spacious realm of rea.son ? — 
Kind sir, there's not a prayer will mount hereafter 
Heavenward from us or our poor children's lips, 
But in it thy dear name will rise embalm'd ; 
And prayers have power to cancel many a sin, 
That clogs and flaws our coarse and corrupt nature. 

FALSETTO. 

Methinks, good Dandolo, 'tis the hour we owe 
Attendance at the Lady Portia's toilette. — 
Any commission in our way, fair lady ? 

DA.NDOLO. 

Oh yes ! I 'm ever indispensable there 
As is her looking-glass. — 

BIANCA. 

Riotous madness ! 

To waste a breath {Detaining them) upon such thin- 
blown bubbles ! 

Why, thou didst cling to him but yesterday, 

As 't were a danger of thy life to part from him ; 

Didst swear it was a sin in Providence 

He was not born a prince. {To Dandolo.) And thou, 
sir, thou — 

Chains, sir, in May — it is a heavy wear ; 

Hard and unseemly, a rude weight of iron. — 

Faugh ! cast ye off this shape and skin of men ; 

Ye stain it, ye pollute it : be the reptiles 

Ye are. {To Pkilario.) And thou, sir — I know in 
whose porch 

265 



25G 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He hired thee to troll out thy fulsome ditties : 

I know whose dainty ears were last night banqueted 

With the false harlotry of thy rich airs. 

PIIILARIO. 

I do beseech thee, lady, judge me not 

So harshly. In the state, Heaven knows, I 'm power- 
less : 

I could remove yon palace walls, as soon 

As alter his sad doom. But if to visit him, 

To tend him with a soft officious zeal, 

Waft the mild magic of mine art around him, 

Making the chill and lazy dungeon air 

More smooth, more gentle to the trammell'd breath- 
ing: — 

All that I can I will, to make his misery 

Slide from him light and airily. 

BIANCA. 

Wilt thou ? 
Why then there's hope the Devil hath not all Florence. 
Go — go ! — I cannot point thee out the way : 
Mine eyes are cloudy ; it is the first rain 
Hath dew'd them, since — since when I cannot tell 

thee — 
Go — go ! — {Exit.) — One effort more, and if I fail — 
But by the inbred and instinctive tenderness 
That mingles with the life of womanhood, 
I cannot fail : and then, thou grim to-morrow, 
I '11 meet thee with a bold and unblench'd front. 



SCENE HI. 
Palace of Aldabella. 

ALDABELLA. 

Fazio in prison ! Fazio doora'd to die ! — 

I was too hasty ; should have fled, and bashfully 

Beckon'd him after; lured him, not seized on him. 

Proud Aldabella a poor robber's paramour ! 

Oh it sounds dismal ! Florence must not hear it : — 

And sooth his time is brief to descant on it. — 

(To BiANCA, who enters.) 
And who art thou thus usherless and unbidden 
Scarest ray privacy ? 

BIANCA (aside). 
I must not speak yet ; 
For if I do, a curse will clog my utterance. 

ALDABELLA. 

Nay, stand not with thy pale lips quivering nothings- 
Speak out, and freely. 

BIANCA. 

Lady, there is one — 
Fie, fie upon this choking in my throat — 
One thou didst love, Giraldi Fazio : 
One who loved thee, Giraldi Fazio — 
He 's doom'd to die, to die to morrow morning ! 
And lo 'lis eve already! — 

ALDABELLA. 

He is doom'd ? 
Why then the man must die 

BIANCA. 

Nay, gentle lady, 
Thou'rt high-born, rich, and beautiful : the princes, 



The prime of Florence wait upon thy smiles. 
Like sunflowers on the golden light they love. 
Thy lips have such sweet melody, 'tis hung upon 
Till silence is an agony. Did it plead 
For one condemn'd, but oh, most innocent, 
'T would be a music th' air would fall in love with. 
And never let it die, till it had won 
Its honest purpose. 

ALDABELLA. 

What a wanton waste 
Of idle praise is here I 

BIANCA. 

Nay think, oh think, 
What 't is to give again a forfeit life : 
Ay, such a life as Fazio's ! — Frown not on me : 
Thou think'st that he's a murderer — 'tis all false; 
A trick of Fortune, fancifully cruel, 
To cheat the world of such a life as Fazio's. 

ALDABELLA. 

Frivolous and weak : I could not if I would. 

BIANCA. 

Nay, but I '11 lure thee with so rich a boon — 
Hear, — hear, and thou art won. If thou dost save 

him, 
It is but just he should be saved for thee. 
I give him thee — Bianca — I his wife : — 
1 pardon all that has been, all that may be — 
Oh I will be thy handmaid ; be so patient — 
Calmly, contentedly, and sadly patient — 
And if ye see a pale or envious motion 
Upon my cheek, a quivering on my lips. 
Like to complaint — then strike him dead before me. 
Thou shall enjoy all — all that I enjoy'd : 
His love, his life, his sense, his soul be thine ; 
And I will bless thee, in my misery bless thee. 

ALDABELLA. 

What mist is on thy wild and wandering eyes ? 
Know'st thou to whom and where thou play'st the 

raver ? 
I, Aldabella, whom the amorous homage 
Of rival lords and princes stirs no more 
Than the light passing of the common air — 
I, Aldabella, when my voice might make 
Thrones render up their stateliest lo my service — 
Stoop to the sordid sweepings of a prison ? 
I — 

BIANCA. 

Proud-lipp'd woman, earth's most gorgeous sove- 
reigns 
Were worthless of my Fazio ! Foolish woman, 
Thou cast'st a jewel oflT! The proudest lord 
That ever revell'd in thy unchaste arms. 
Was a swarth galley-slave to Fazio. 
Ah me! me ! me ! e'en I his lawful wife 
Know 't not more truly, certainly than thou. — 
Hadst thou loved him, I had'pardon'd, pitied thee : 
We two had sate, all coldly, palely sad ; 
Dropping, like statues on a fountain-side, 
A pure, a silent, and eternal dew. 
Hadst thou outwept me, I had loved thee for't — 
And that were easy, for I 'm stony here. (Putting her 
hand to her eyes.) 

26G 



FAZIO. 



25T 



ALDABELLA. 

Ho there ! to th' hospital for the lunatics 
Fetch succour for this poor distrest — 

BIANCA. 

What said I ? 
Oh pardon me, I came not to upbraid thee. — 
Think, think — I '11 whisper it, I '11 not betray thee; 
The air 's a tell-tale, and the walls are listeners : — 
Think what a change ! Last night within thy cham- 
ber; 
(I '11 not say in thy arms ; for that displeases thee, 
And sickens me to utter,) and to-night 
Upon a prison pallet, straw, hard straw ; 
For eastern perfumes, the rank noisome air ; 
For gentle harpings, shrilly clanking chains: — 
Nay, turn not off": the worst is yet to come. 
To-morrow at his waking, for thy face 
Languidly, lovingly down drooping o'er him, 
The scarr'd and haggard executioner. 

ALDABELLA {turning away). 
There is a dizzy trembling in mine eye; 
But I must dry the foolish dew for .shame. 
Well, what is it to me ? I slew him not ; 
Nay, nor denounced him to the judgment-seat. 
I but debase myself to lend free hearing 
To such coarse fancies — I must hence : to-night 
I feast the lords of Florence. [Exit, 

ElANCA. 

They 're all lies : 
Things done within some far and distant planet, 
Or offscum of some dreamy poet's brain. 
All tales of human goodness. Or they 're legends 
Left us of some good old forgotten lime, 
Ere harlotry became a queenly sin, 
And housed in palaces. Oh, earth 's so crowded 
With Vice, that if strange Virtue stray abroad, 
They hoot it from them like a thing accurst 
Fazio, my Fazio I — but we 'II laugh at them : 
We will not stay upon their wicked soil. 
E'en though they sue us not to die and leave them. 



SCENE IV. 
Fazio's House. 

BIAN'CA. 

Ah, what a fierce and frantic coil is here. 
Because the sun must shine on one man less ! 
I 'm sick and weary — my feet drag along. 
Why must I trail, like a scotch'd serpent, hither ? 
, Here, to this house, where all things breathe of Fazio ? 
The air tastes of him — the walls whisper of him. — 

Oh, I '11 to bed ! to bed ! What find I there ? 

Fazio, my fond, my gentle, fervent Fazio? — 

No! Cold stones are his couch, harsh iron bars 

Curtain his slumbers. — Oh, no, no — I have it — 

He is in Aldabella's arms. Out on 't ! 

Fie, fie I — that 's rank, that 's noisome ! — I remember — 
Our children — ay, my children — Fazio's children. 
'T was my thoughts' burthen as I came along, 
Were it not wise to bear them off with us 
Away from this cold world ? — Why should we breed up 



More sinners for the Devil to prey upon ? 

There 's one a boy — some strumpet will enlace hira. 

And make him wear her loathsome livery. 

The other a girl: if she be ill, she'll sink 

Spotted to death — she '11 be an Aldabella : 

If she be chaste, she '11 be a wretch like me, 

A jealous wretch, a frantic guilty wretch. — 

No, no : they must not live, they must not live ! 

[Exit into a chamler. 
After a pause, she returns. 
It will not be, it will not be — they woke 
As though e'en in their sleep they felt my presence ; 
And then they smiled upon me fondly, playfully. 
And stretch'd their rosy fingers to sport with me : 
The boy did arch his eyebrows so like Fazio, 
Though my soul wish'd that God would take them to 

him, 
That they were 'scaped this miserable world, 
I could but kiss them ; and, when I had kiss'd them, 
I could as soon have leap'd up to the moon 

As speck'd or soil'd their alabaster skins 

Wild that I am ! — Take them t' another world ! 

As though I, I my husband's murderess, 
In the dread separation of the dead. 

Should meet again those spotless innocents! 

Oh, happy they! — they will but know to-morrow 
By the renewal of the soft warm daylight. [Exit. 



ACT v. — SCENE L 
A Street — Morning Twilight. 

BIANCA. 

Where have I been ? — I have not been at rest — 

There 's yet the stir of motion in my limbs. 

Oh, I remember — 'twas a hideous strife 

Within my brain : I felt that all was hopeless, 

Yet would not credit it ; and I set forth 

To tell my Fazio so, and dared not front him 

With such cold comfort. Then a mist came o'er me. 

And something drove me on, and on, and on. 

Street after street, each blacker than the other. 

And a blue axe did shimmer through the gloom — 

Its fiery edge did waver to and fro — 

And there were infants' voices, faint and failing, 

That panted after me. I knew I fled them ; 

Yet could not choose but fly. And then, oh then, 

I gazed and gazed upon the starless darkness. 

And blest it in my soul, for it was deeply 

And beautifully black — no speck of light; 

And I had feverish and fantastic hopes, 

That it would last for ever, nor give place 

To th' horrible to-morrow. Ha, 't is there ! — 

'Tis the grey morning-light aches in mine eyes — 

It is that morrow ! Ho ! — Look out, look out ! 

With what a hateful and unwonted swiftness 

It scares my comfortable darkness from me ! 

Fool that I am ! — I 've lost the few brief hours 
Yet left me of my Fazio I — Oh, away. 
Away to him ! — away ! [Exit. 

2S7 



258 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SCENE II. 

The Prison — totally dark, except a lamp. 

Fazio and Philario. 

FAZIO. 

I thanic thee : 't was a melancholy hymn ; 

But soft and soothing as the gale of eve, 

The gale, whose flower-sweet breath no more shall 

pass o'er me. 
Oh, what a gentle ministrant is music 
To piety — to mild, to penitent piety ! 
Oh, it gives plumage to the tardy prayer, 
That lingers in our lazy earthly air, 

And melts with it to heaven To die, 'tis dreary; 

To die a villain's death, that 's yet a pang. 
But it must down : I have so steep'd my soul 
In the bitter ashes of true penitence. 
That they have put on a delicious savour. 
And all is halcyon quiet, all within. 

Bianca ! — Where is she ? — why comes she not? 

Yet I do almost wish her not to come, 
Lest she again enamour me of life. 

PHILARIO. 

Kast thou no charge to her, no fond bequest ? — 
It shall lose little by my bearing it. 

FAZIO. 

Oh yes, oh yes ! — I have her picture here : 
That I had seen it in one hour of my life. 
In Aldabella's arms had it look'd on me, 
I should have had one sin less to repent of. 
I 'm loth the coarse and vulgar executioner 
Should handle it with his foul gripe, or pass 
His ribald jests upon ii. — Give it her. 

[With the picture he draws out some gold, on which 
he looks with great apparent melancholy. 

PUILARIO. 

And this too, sir 1 

FAZIO. 

Oh, touch it not, Philario ! 
Oh, touch it not ! — 't is venomous, 't is viperous I 
If there be bottomless sea, unfathom'd pit 
In earth's black womb — oh, plunge it, plunge it deep, 
Deep, dark! or if a devil be abroad. 
Give it to him, to bear it whence it came. 
To its own native Hell. — Oh no, no, no ! — 
He must not have it: for with it he '11 betray 
More men, more noble spirits than Lucifer 
Drew down from heaven. This yellow pestilence 
Laid waste my Eden ; made a gaudy bird of me, 
For soft Temptation's silken nets to snare. 
It crept in to us — Sin came with it — Misery 
Dogg'd its foul footsteps — ever-deepening Sin, 

And ever-darkening Misery. Philario, 

Away with it ! — away ! — {Takes the picture.) Here 'a 

fairer gazing. 
Thou wouldst not think these smooth and smiling lips 
Could speak away a life — a husband's life. 
Yet ah! I led the way to sin — I wrong'd her: 
Yet, Heaven be witness, though I wrong'd her, loved 

her, 
E'en in my heart of heart. 



Enter Bianca. 

Who 's that, Bianca, 

That 's loved so deeply ? Fazio, Fazio, Fazio, — 

It is that morrow ! 

FAZIO. 

Nay, look cheeringly : 
It may be God doth punish in this world 
To spare hereafter. 

BIANCA. 

Fazio, set me loose ! — 
Thou clasp'st thy murderess. 

FAZIO. 

No, it is my love, 
My wife, my children's mother ! — Pardon me, 

Bianca ; but thy children 1 '11 not see them : 

For on the wax of a soft infant's memory 
Things horrible sink deep and sternly settle. 
I would not have them, in their after-days, 
Cherish the image of their wretched father 
In the cold darkness of a prison-house. 
Oh, if they ask thee of their father, tell them 
That he is dead, but say not how. 

BIANCA. 

No, no — 
Not tell them, that their mother murder'd him. 

FAZIO. 

But are they well, my love ? 

BIANCA. 

What, had I freed them 
From this drear villains' earth, sent them before us. 
Lest we should miss them in another world, 
And so be fetter'd by a cold regret 
Of this sad sunshine ? 

FAZIO. 

Oh, thou hast not been 
So wild a rebel to the will of God ! 
If that thou hast, 'twill make my passionate arms, 
That ring thee round so fondly, dropoff from thee, 
Like sere and wither'd ivy ; make my farewell 
Spoken in such suffocate and distemper'd tone, 
'Twill sound more like 

BIANCA. 

They live! thank God, they live! 
I should not rack thee with such fantasies : 
But there have been such hideous things around me. 
Some whispering me, some dragging me ; I 've felt 
Not half a moment's calm since last we parted, 
So exquisite, so gentle, as this now — 
I could sleep on thy bosom, Fazio. 

Enter Antonio. 

ANTONIO. 

Prisoner, 
Thine hour is come. 

BIANCA. 

It is not morning yet — 
Where is the twilight that should usher it ? 
Where is the sun, that should come golden on ! 
Ill-lavour'd liar, to come prate of morning. 
With torchlight in thy hand to scare the darkness. 

268 



FAZIO. 



259 



ANTONIO. 

Thou dost forget ; day's light ne'er pierceth here : 
The sun hath kindled up the open air. 

BIANCA. 

I say 't is bat an hour since it was evening, 
A dreary, measureless, and mournful hour, 
Yet but an hour. 

FAZIO. 

I will obey thee, officer! 
Yet but a word — Bianca, 't is a strange one — 
Canst thou endure it, dearest! — Aldabella 

BIANCA. 

Curse her! 

FAZIO. 

Peace, peace ! — 't is dangerous : sinner's curses 
Pluck them down tenfold from the angry heavens 
Upon the curser's head — Beseech thee, peace ! — 
Forgive her — for thy Fazio's sake, forgive her. 

BIANCA. 

Any thing not to think on her Not yet — 

They shall not kill thee — by my faith they shall not ! 
I '11 clasp mine arms so closely round thy neck, 
That the red axe shall hew them off; ere shred 
A hair of thee : I will so mingle with thee, 
That they shall strike at random, and perchance 

Set me free first 

[The bell sounds, her grasp relaxes, and she 
stands torpid. 
FAZIO {hissing her, which she does not seem to be 
conscious of.) 
Farewell, farewell, farewell ! — 
She does not feel, she does not feel I — Thank heaven. 
She does not feel her Fazio's last, last kiss ! — 
One other ! — Cold as stone — sweet, sweet as roses. 

[Exit. 
BIANCA (slowly recovering.) 
Gone, gone ! — he is not air yet, not thin spirit I — 

He should not glide away — he is not guilty 

Ye murder and not execute — Not guilty. 

[Exit, followed by Philario. 



SCENE III. 

A magnificent Apartment in the Palace of Aldabella 
— Every appearance of a ball prolonged till morning. 
— Duke, Lords, Falsetto, Dandolo, and Alda- 
bella. 

DUKE. 

'Tis late, 'tis lato; the yellow morning light 
Streams in upon our sick and waning lamps. 
It was a jocund night: but good my friends, 
The sun reproves our lingering revelry ; 
And, angry at our scorning of his state. 
Will shine the slumber from our heavy eyes. 

GONSALVO. 

There 's one, my liege, will sleep more calm than we : 
But now I heard the bell with iron tongue 
Speak out unto the still and solemn air 
The death-stroke of the murderer Fazio. 
22 * 2 H 



DUKE. 

So, lady, fare thee well : our gentlest thanks 
For thy fair entertaining. — Ha! what's here? 

Enter Bianca, followed by Philario. 

BIANCA. 

Ha! ye 've been dancing, dancing — so have I: 
But mine was heavy music, slow and solemn — 
A bell, a bell : my thick blood roll'd to it, 
My heart swung to and fro, a dull deep motion. 

(Seeing Aldabella.) 
'Tis thou, 'tis thou! — I came to tell thee something. 

aldabella (alarmed and shrinking.) 
Ah me! ah me! 

BIANCA. 

Nay, shrink not — I'll not kill thee: 
For if I do, I know, in the other world. 
Thou 'It shoot between me and my richest joys. — 
Thou shall stay here — I '11 have him there — all — all 
of him. 

duke. 
What means the wild-hair'd maniac ? 

BIANCA (moving him aside.) 

By and by 

To Aldabella. 
I tell thee, that warm cheek thy lips did stray on 
But yesternight, 'tis cold and colourless : 
The breath, that stirr'd among thy jetty locks. 
That was such incense to thee — it is fled : 
The voice, that call'd thee then, his soul of soul — 
I know it — 't was his favourite phrase of love — 
I 've heard it many a time myself— 't was rapturous ; 
That mild, that musical voice is dumb and frozen : 
The neck whereon thine arms did hang so tenderly, 
There 's blood upon it, blood — I tell thee, blood. 
Dost thou hear that? is thy brain fire to bear it? 
Mine is, mine is, mine is. 

duke. 

'Tis Fazio's wife. 

BIANCA. 

It is not Fazio's wife. — Have the dead wives? 

Ay, ay, my liege, and I know thee, and well — 

Thou art the rich-robed minister of the laws. 

Fine laws ! rare laws ! most equitable laws ! 

Who robs his neighbour of his yellow dust. 

Or his bright spai ig stones, or such gay trash — 

Oh, he must die, aie lor the public good. 

And if one steal a husband from his wife. 

Do dive into her heart for ils best treasure, 

Do rend asunder whom Heaven link'd in one — 

Oh, they are meek, and merciful, and milky — 

'Tis a trick of human frailty Oh, fine laws! 

Rare laws ! most equitable laws ! 
duke. 

Poor wretch. 
Who is it thus hath wrong'd thee ? 

BIANCA (to the Duke.) 

Come thou here. 
The others crowd around her — she nays to Falsetto, 
Get back, get back : the god that thou adoredst. 
Thy god is dead, thou pitiful idolater. 

To Dandolo (showing her Dress.] 
I know they 're coarse and tatter'd — Get thee back. 

209 



260 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To the Duke. 

I tell thee, that rich woman — she My liege, 

I '11 speak anon — my lips do cling together — 
There's dust about my tongue — I cannot move it 

DUKE. 

Ho, there I — some wine ! 

BIA.NCA. 

Thank thee, 't is moist — 1 thank thee ; 
(As she raises the goblet to her lips, she sees Aldabella, 

and dashes it away.) 
Her lips have been upon it — I '11 have none on't. 

ALDABET.LA. 

My liege, thou wilt not hearken to the tale 
Of a mad woman, venting her sick fancies 
Upon a lady of my state and honour ! 

DUKE. 

Lady, there is one state alone, that holds 
Above the range of plumed and restle.ss Justice 

Her throned majesty — the state of Virtue. 

Poor sad distraught, speak on. 

BIA.NCA. 

T am not mad. 
Thou smooth-lipp'd slanderer! — I have been mad. 
And then ray words came vague, and loose, and 

broken ; 
But now, there's mode and measure in my speech. 
I '11 hold my brain ; and then I '11 tell my tale 

Simply and clearly. Fazio, my poor Fazio — 

He murder'd not — he found Bartolo dead. 

The wealth did shine in his eyes, and he was dazzled. 

And when that he was gaily gilded up. 

She, she, I say (nay, keep away from her. 

For she hath witchcraft all around her), she 

Did take him to her chamber Fie, my liege! 

What should my husband in her chamber? — Then, 
Ay then, I madden'd. Hark ! hark ! hark ! — the 

bell. 
The bell that I set knolling — hark! — Here, here. 
Massy and cold it strikes — Here, here. (Clasping her 

forehead.) 

GONSALVO. 

Sad woman ! 
Tear not so piteously thy disorder'd hair! 

BIANCA. 

I do not tear my hair : there should be pain 



If that I did ; but all my pain 's within (with her hand 

to her bosom). 
It will not break, it will not break — 'tis iron. 

DUKE. 

If this be true 

PHIL.ARIO. 

My liege, it is the tale 
That Fazio told me ere he died. 

BIANCA. 

Ay, sir, 
The dying lie not — he, a dying man, 
Lied not — and I, a dying woman, lie not : 
For I shall die, spite of this iron here. 

DUKE {to AlDABELLA). 

There is confession in thy guilty cheeks. 
Thou high-born baseness ! beautiful deformity ! 
Dishonour'd honour! — How hast thou discredited 
All that doth fetter admiration's eye. 
And made us out of love with loveliness ! 
I do condemn thee, woman, by the warrant 
Of this my ducal diadem, to put on thee 
The rigid convent vows : there bleach anew 
Thy sullied breast ; there temper thy rank blood ; 
Lay ashes to thy soul ; swathe thy hot skin 
In sackcloth ; and God give thee length of days, 
T' atone, by this world's misery, this world's sin. 

[Exit Aldabella. 

BIANCA. 

Bless thee. Heaven bless thee ! — Yet it must not be. 
My Fazio said we must forgive her — Fazio 
Said so ; and all he said is best and wisest. 

DUKE. 

She shall have her desert: aught more to ask of us? 

BIANCA. 

My children — thou 'It protect them Oh, my liege, 

Make them not rich : let them be poor and honest. 

DUKE. 

I will, I will. 

BIANCA. 

Why then 'tis time, 'tis time. 
And thou believest he is no murderer ? {Duke bows 

a.'^senl.) 
Thou 'It lay me near him, and keep her away from us. 
It brealis, it brealvs, it breaks — it is not iron. 

[Dies. 
270 



SAM OR. 



261 



Satnor, iLottJ or tne ^visht d^iivt* 

AN HEROIC POEM. 



et o I modo spiritus adsit, 

Frangara Saxonicas Britonum sub Marte phalanges. 
MILTON, Mansus. 

■ the belter fortitude 



Of patience and heroic martyrdom. 

MILTON'S Par. Lost, Book IX. 



PREFACE. 



The Historians* of the Empire, near the period of 
time at which this Poem commences, malie mention 
of a Constantine, who assumed the purple of the 
■western empire, gained possession of Gaul and Spain, 
but was defeated and slain at the battle of Aries. He 
had a son named Constans, who became a monk, and 
was put to death at Vienne. 

About the same time a Constantine appears in the 
relations of the old British Chronicles and Romances. 
He was brother of the king of Armorica, and became 
himself'King, or rather an elected sovereign of the 
petty Kings of Britain,! who continued their succession 
under the Roman dominion. He was called Vendi- 
gardt and ^Varedur, the Defender and Deliverer. He 
had three sons, Constans, who became a hermit, and 
•was murdered, either (for the traditions vary) by the 
Picts, by V'ortigern, or by the Saxons ; Emrys, called 
by the Latin writers Aurelius Ambrosius; and Ulher 
Pendragon, the father of Arthur. These two Con- 
stantines are here identified, and Vortigern supposed 
to have been named King of Britain, as the person 
of greatest authority and conduct in the wreck of the 
British army, defeated at Aries. Many, however, of 
the chiefs in the Island advancing the hereditary 
right, before formally settled on the sons of Constan- 
tine, Vortigern, mistrusting the Britons, and prest by 
invasions of the Caledonians, introduced the Saxons 
to check the barbarians and strengthen his own sove- 
reignty. 

The Hero of the Poem is an historical character, as 
far as such legends can be called History. He appears 
in most of the Chronicles, as Edol, or Eldol, but the 
fullest account of his exploits is in Dugdale's Baron- 
age under his title of Earl of Gloucester. William 
Harrison, however, in the description of Britain pre- 
fixed to Holinshed, calls him Eldulph de Samor. But 
all concur in ascribing to him the acts which make 
the chief subject of the fifth and last Books of this 
Poem. 

Most of our present names of places being purely 
Saxon, and the old British having little of harmony or 

*Gibbon, Chap. 31. t Whitaker, Hist, of Manchester. 
t Lewis, Hist, of Britain. 



association to recommend them, I have frequently, on 
the authority of Camden and others, translated them. 
Thus the Saxon Gloucester, called by the Britons Caer 
Gloew, is the Bright City. The Dobuni, the inhabit- 
ants of the Vales, are called by that name. Some 
few sanctioned by old usages of Poetry and Romance 
I retain, as Kent, Thanet, Cornwall. London is Troy- 
novant, as the City of the Trinobantes. 

Some passages in the Poem will be easily traced to 
their acknowledged sources, the Poets of Greece and 
Italy ; one, however, in the third book, relating to the 
Northern mythology, has been remarkably anticipated 
in a modern Poem. The honourable Author may be 
assured that the coincidence is unintentional, as that 
part of this Poem was the earliest written, and pre- 
vious to the appearance of his production. 

SAMOR. 



BOOK I. 
Land of my birth, O Britain ! and my love ; 
Whose air I breathe, whose earth I tread, whose 

tongue 
My song would speak, its strong and solemn tones 
Most proud, if I abase not. Beauteous Isle, 
And plenteous ! what though in thy atmosphere 
Float not the taintless luxury of light. 
The dazzling azure of the Southern skies ; 
Around thee the rich orb of thy renown 
Spreads stainless and unsullied by a cloud. 
Though thy hills blush not with the purple vine, 
And softer climes e.\cel thee in the hue 
And fragrance of thy summer fruits and flowers, 
Nor flow thy rivers over golde'h beds ; 
Thou in the soul of man, thy better wealth. 
Art richest : nature's noblest produce thou. 
The immortal Mind in perfect height and strength, 
Bear'st with a prodigal opulence ; this thy right. 
Thy privilege of climate and of soil, 
Would I assert : nor, save thy fame, invoke. 
Or Nymph, or Muse, that oft 'twas dream'd of old 
By falls of waters under haunted shades, 
Her ecstasy of inspiration pour'd 
O'er Poet's soul, and flooded all his powers 
271 



263 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



With liquid glory : so may thy renown 

Burn in my heart, and give to thought and word 

The aspiring and the radiant hue of fire. 

Forth from the gates of Troynovant hath pass'd 
King Vortigern; the Princes of the Isle 
Around him ; on the walls, for then (though now 
Scorn bounds her mighty wilderness of streets, 
And in magnificence of multitude 
Spread, and illimitable grandeur), walls 
With jealous circuit and embattled range 
Girt Britain's narrow Capital ; where swarm'd 
Eager her wondering citizens to see 
The Monarch. Him the Saxon Hengist met, 
And Ilorsa, with their bands in triumph led, 
As from a recent victory ; their blue eyes 
Sparkled, and proud they shook their saffron hair ; 
And in the bicker of their spears, the toss 
Of ponderous mallets, the quick flash of swords, 
Th' emblazon'd White Horse on their banners waved, 
Was triumph. Thus King Vortigern began : 

" Welcome, Deliverers ! of our kingdom's foes. 
Welcome, thrice-honour'd Conquerors ! never more 
Shall painted Caledonian o'er our realm 
The chariots of his rapine wheel, so full 
The desolation, havoc so complete 
Hath smote and blasted in Erie Hengist's path. 
The mouldering ruins of our Roman wall. 
Leagued with the terror of the Saxon name, 
Shall be defence more mighty, than when soar'd 
Its battlements unbroken, and above 
The imperial Eagle shook its wings of gold. 
Oh, toil'd with victory, burthen'd with renown, 
For ye our baths float cool and clear, our air 
Is redolent with garland wreathes, and rich 
Within our royal citadel is crown'd 
For ye the banquet; welcome once again. 
Mighty to save, and potent to defend !" 
A faint acclaim, a feeble sullen din 
Ensued, with less of gladness than fierce grief. 
And wrath ill stifled. Seeming all unmoved. 
Elate the Monarch onward led the way ; 
Slow follow'd Saxon Hengist's martial train. 
Clashing their armour loud, as they would daunt 
All Britain with the clamour: march 'd behind 
The island Nobles, save some restless hands 
Were busy with their sheathed swords, they moved 
Silent, and cold, and gloomy, as a range 
Of mountain pines, when cloudy lowers the storm. 

Upon the azure bosom of the Thames 
Reclining, with its ponderous mass of shade. 
Arose the royal CitaJel, the work 
Of the great Caesar. Danger he and dread 
Of Rome and Pompey ; yet 'gainst savage foes 
Vantage of trench and tower and massy wall 
Scorn'd not, so swift, so perilous, so fierce 
Cassivelan his painted charioteers 
Whirl'd to the frantic onset, standing forth 
Portent of freedom 'mid a world enslaved. 

They pass'd the portal arch ; the sumptuous hall 
Flung back its gates ; around the banquet board 
Ranged Prince and Chieftain, where luxurious art 



Shower'd prodigal her dainties, poisons sweet. 
And baleful splendour. Fierce the Saxon gazed 
On goblet, and huge charger carved with gold, 
Contemptuous wonder. But the Monarch's brow 
'Gan lighten, as with greedy joy he quaff'd 
Oblivious bliss ; thus ever guilty soul 
Woos frenzy, and, voluptuous from despair. 
Forgets itself to pleasure. High aloof, 
Each in his azure robe, the band of Bards 
Mingled the wanton luxuries of sound ; 
Gentle melodious languor, melting fall. 
With faint effeminate flattery the soul 
Guiling of manhood. Silent veil'd his harp 
White-hair'd Aneurin, and indignant tears 
Stood in the old man's eye, for wrathful shame 
To hear his god-like and heaven-breathing art 
Pampering loose revels with officious chime. 
Then rose the glorious madness; forth he sprung 
With one rude stroke along the clashing chords 
Won silence deep as of a summer eve 
After a noontide storm ; his silver locks 
Waved proud, the kindling frenzy of his eye 
Flash'd triumph, as the song of Chariots rose. 
The song that o'er the van of battle shower'd 
Pale horror, when that scourged Icenian Queen 
Through the square legions drove her car; were heard 
Her brazen wheels to madden, the keen scythes I 

Gride through their iron harvest; then rush'd rout, 
Wail'd havoc; seem'd Bonduca fiercer urged 
The trampling steeds ; behind her silence sank 
Along the dreary path of her revenge. 

Ceased the bold strain, then deep the Saxon drain'd 
The ruddy cup, and savage joy uncouth 
Lit his blue gleaming eyes : nor sate unmoved 
The Briton Chiefs ; fierce thoughts began to rise 
Of ancient wars, and high ancestral fame. 
Sudden came floating through the hall an air 
So strangely sweet, the o'erwrought sense scarce felt 
Its rich excess of pleasure ; softer sounds 
Melt never on the enchanted midnight cool. 
By haunted spring, where elfin dancers trace 
Green circlets on the moonlight dews ; nor lull 
Becalmed mariner from rocks, where basks 
At summer noon the Sea-maid ; he his oar 
Breathless suspends, and motionless his bark 
Sleeps on the sleeping waters. INovv the notes 
So gently died away, the silence seem'd 
Melodious ; merry now and light and blithe 
They danced on air : anon came tripping forth 
In frolic grace a maiden troop, their locks 
Flower- wreath'd, their snowy robes from clasped zone 
Fell careless dreoping, quick their glittering feet 
Glanced o'er the pavement. Then the pomp of sound 
Swell'd up, and mounted ; as the stately swan, 
Her milk-white neck embower'd in arching spray. 
Queens it along the waters, entered in 
The lofty hall a shape so fair, it lull'd 
The music into silence, yet itself 
Pour'd out, prolonging the soft ecstasy. 
The trembling and the touching of sweet sound. 
Her grace of motion and of look, the smooth 
And swimming majesty of step and tread. 



SAMOR. 



263 



The symmetry of form and feature, set 

The soul afloat, even like delicious airs 

Of flute or harp : as though she trod from earth, 

And round her wore an emanating cloud 

Of harmony, the Lady moved. Too proud 

For less than absolute command, too soft 

For aught but gentle amorous thought : her hair 

Cluster 'd, as from an orb of gold cast out 

A dazzling and o'erpowering radiance, save 

Here and there on her snowy neck reposed 

In a soothed brilliance some thin wandering tress. 

The azure flashing of her eye was li-inged 

\Vith virgin meekness, and her tread, that seem'd 

Earth to disdain, as softly fell on it 

As the light dew-shower on a tuft of flowers. 

The soul within seem'd feasting on high thoughts. 

That to the outward form and feature gave 

A loveliness of scorn, scorn that to feel 

Was bliss, was sweet indulgence. Fast sank back 

Those her fair harbingers, their modest eyes. 

Downcast, and drooping low their slender necks 

In graceful reverence ; she, by wond'ring gaze 

Unmoved, and stifled murmurs of applause, 

Nor yet unconscious, slowly won her way 

To where the King, amid the festal pomp, 

Sate loftiest ; as she raised a fair-chased cup, 

Something of sweet confusion overspread 

Her features ; something tremulous broke in 

On her half-failing accents as she said, 

" Health to the King !" — the sparkling wine laugh'd 

up. 
As eager 't were to touch so fair a lip. 

A moment, and the apparition bright 
Had f>arted ; as before the sound of harps 
Was wantoning about the festive hall. 

As one just waking from a blissful dream 
Nor moves, nor breathes, lest breath or motion break 
The beauteous tissue of fine form woven o'er 
His fancy, sate King Vortigem. " Whence came, 
And whither went she? of what race and stem 
Sprang this bright wonder of our earth, that leaves 
The rapture of her presence in our hall. 
Though parted thence too swiftly 1" — " King (replied 
Erie Hengist) — in our ancient Saxon faith, 
111 bodes the joyless feast, where maiden's lips 
Pledge not the wassail goblet." — "By my soul," 
Cried Vortigern, " a gallant faith ! and I 
Omen so sweet discredit not ; the health 
Those smooth lips wish'd me, well those lips might 

give, 
A fragrance and a sparkling have they left 
Even on the wine they touch'd." He said, and prest 
The goblet to his own. " A father's ear. 
King Vortigern, must love the flattering tongue 
That descants lavish on his daughter's praise." 
"Thy daughter? Saxon!" — "Mine, though vaunt 

not I 
Her beauty, many a German Erie and King 
Hath vovv'd at his life's peril to proclaim 
Her far-surpassing comeliness." — None heard 
The secret converse that ensued. Lo, rose 



King VoTtigem, and from his brow transferr'd 
A coronet of radiant Eastern gems 
To the white hair of Hengist, and drank oflT 
A brimming cup, and cried, " To Kent's high King, 
A health, a health to Vorligern's fair bride. 
The golden-hair'd Rowena." — Seized at once 
Each Saxon the exulting strain, and struck 
The wine-drain'd goblet down, "Health, King of 
Kent!" 

As 'mid the fabled Libyan bridal stood 
Perseus, in stern tranquillity of wrath, 
Half stood, half floated on his ancle plumes 
Out-swelling, while the bright face on his shield 
Look'd into stone the raging fray ; so rose. 
But with no magic arms, wearing alone 
Th' appalling and control of his firm look, 
The solemn indignation of his brow, 
The Briton Samor; at his rising, awe 
Went abroad, and the riotous hall was mute ; 
But like unruffled summer waters flow'd 
His speech, and courtly reverence smoothed its tone. 

"Sovereign of Britain's Sovereigns! of our crowns 
The highest! in our realm of many thrones 
Enthroned the loftiest ! mighty as thou art. 
Thou dost outstep thy amplitude of sway ; 
Thine is our isle to govern, not to give ; 
A free and sacr.-d property hast thou 
In our allegiance ; for a master's right 
Over our lives, our princedoms, and our souls. 
King Vortigern, as well may'st thou presume 
To a dominion o'er our winds, to set 
Thy stamp and impress on our light from heaven. 
This Britain cannot rest beneath the shade 
Of Saxon empire, this our Christian soil 
The harvest of obedience will not bear 
To Heathen sway ; and hear me, Vortigern, 
The golden image that thou settest up, 
Like the pride-drunken Babylonian king. 
Though dulcimer and psaltery soothe us down 
To the soft humour of submission tame, 
We will not worship." — From the hall he past. 
Thus saying. Him the Island's brave and proud 
FoUovv'd, the high and fame-enaraour'd souls. 
Never to Britain wanting, though in hours 
Loosest of revels soft, and wanton ease. 
But Vortigern, more largely pouring in 
The vine's delicious poison, sate, and cried, 
" Whom the flax binds not, must the iron gyve. 
Whom sceptres daunt not, must the sword control." 

Evening fell gentle, and the brilliant sun 
Was going down into the waveless Thames, 
As bearing light and warmth to her cold Nymphs 
Within their crystal chambers, when the King 
Left the hall of banquet. Lofty and alone, 
Even as the Pillar great Alcides set, 
The limit of the world and his renown. 
On C'alpe, round whose shaft the daylight wreathed 
Its last empurpling, on the battlements 
Stood Samor in the amethystine light. 
And " Go to darkness, thou majestic orb ! 
273 



264 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tomorrow shall the nations bask again 

In thy full glory." — Thus he said, and turn'd 

To where the King went rapid past. — "And thou. 

Thou to thy setting hastest, never more 

Thou thy benighted splendour to renew ; 

Late at thy noon of pride, now sunk, declined 

For ever from thy fair meridian, go 

Into thy cloudy rest!" — The solemn tone 

Of his deep voice seized on the King, as frosts 

Arrest the rapid flowing stream — " What means 

The Sovereign of the Vales, even in my halls, 

And on my castle battlements, to cast 

Bold scorn on Britain's King ? Ingrate and blind. 

When I the valiant Saxon have brought in 

To check the Caledonian, through your isle 

Marching by wild light of your burning towns ; 

Ye, wedded to your sorrow and your shame, 

Mock at the safety my free love provides." 

"Ah, provident! ah. sage! ah, generous King! 

That sets the emaciate wolf to dog the flock ; 

The hawk to guard the dovecote."— "Wise-lipp'd chief, 

I thank thee for thy phrase : doves are ye, doves 

That fly with piteous and most delicate speed 

Before the Scottish kites, that swoop your nests 

And flesh their greedy talons in your young." — 

•' Monarch ! the eaglet, were it smoothly nurst 

In the dove's downy nest, at its first flight 

Would shrink down dazzled from the morning sun ; 

But with strong plumes refresh'd, ancn 't would claim 

Its old aspiring birthright, and unblench'd 

Bathe in the bickering of the noontide car. 

Oh, we have slumber'd on soft luxury's lap 

To her loose tabret; but, misjudging King! 

Britain is like her soil ; above the turf 

Lies velvet smooth, hard iron lurks beneath. 

I know the northern Pagans waste our land, 

And the tame mission to the Roman sent 

I know : ' The fierce Barbarian to the sea 

Drives us, the sea to the Barbarian back 

Merciless :' so ran the plaintive legend. True! 

But soldiers would it cast us back ; despair 

Hath its own valour ; war makes warriors. King ! 

Calamities are on us, evil days 

O'er our isle darken, but the noble wear 

Disaster, as an Angel wears his wings. 

To elevate and glorify. Nor us 

Shroudeth alone the enveloping gloom, the frame 

And fabric of our world is breaking up. 

Rome's dome of empire, that o'ervaulted earth 

With its capacious shadow, rent and split. 

Disorders the smooth course of human things, 

Leaving confusion lord of this wide ball, 

While to and fro the Nations sway perplex'd, 

Like a tempestuous sea. Oh, 'mid such wreck, 

Our Britain in lone safety to uphold. 

On every side 'gainst gathering foes present 

A rampire of hard steel, or firmer far. 

The bulwark of a haughty spirit pour'd 

From the throned Sovereign through her sons, were 

pride. 
Were honour, might arrest Heaven's plumed hosts, 
And in their sphere-born music win renown. 
So He whose sceptre glitters in thy grasp, 



He the Deliverer, the Defender named, 

So Constantine had done, had the high Soul's bane. 

Ambition, never madden'd him to wear 

The purple, madly worn, yet nobly lost 

On the sad plain by Aries." — " I knew, I knew 

'T would come to this, that Constantine would end 

The high-wrought orat'ry. This too I know. 

And this I tell thee, Samor ! nor yet add 

Rebel ! thy secret commerce with his sons, 

To undermine my stately throne ; the right, 

So babble ye in your licentious phrase, 

Conferr'd by our assembled British Kings 

On Constantine for ever and his heirs." — 

"Alas ! how better were it to know nought. 
Than, like kings, darkly. Constantine's brave sons 
And Samor oft have met, have met to wail 
The hazard of their native land, to swear 
Before the altar of the eternal God, 
Never, amid these rude and perilous times, 
To blow the trump of civil strife, to prop 
With their allegiance Britain's throne, though fiU'd 
By one they deem usurping. Vortigern ! 
I am upon the string that jars thy soul. 
And it must vibrate to its highest pitch. 
Oh what a royal madness, that might build 
Upon the strong rock of a people's love, 
Yet chooseth the loose quicksand of distrust. 
And overlays the palace of his pride 
With a rude Saxon buttress, whose stern weight 
Must crush it. Thou dost fear thy subjects arm'd. 
Fear, lest the old valiance in their hearts inure. 
And therefore fight'st their wars with foreign steel ; 
And is this he, the noble and the wise. 
The Vortigern, that Britain on the plain 
Of Aries, that fatal plain, hail'd Captain, King? 
Arise, be King, be Captain, be thyself! 
And we will stand around thy throne, and mock 
The ruinous fashion of the times." — "Away ! 
My royal word is to the Saxon given." 
"O, Vortigern! this knee hath never bow.'d. 
Save to the King of kings, thus low on earth 
I sue thee, cast the Saxon off." — At once 
The swift contagious grandeur set on fire 
The Monarch — " I am thine, am Britain's all : 
Now by my throne, thus, thus I have not felt. 
Since first this circling gold eat in my brow, 
So free, so upright, and so kingly, chains 
Fall from me, mists are curling off my soul." 

Like two bold venturers, silently they stand, 
Launching amid the sun-light their rich bark 
O'er glassy waters to the summer airs : 
Their solemn pondering hath the lofty look 
Of vaunting, over each high brow flames out 
A noble rivalry of hope and pride. 

The sound of wheels, lo. sliding came and smooth 
A car, wherein, like some fair idol led 
Through the mute tumult of adoring streets, 
Bright-hair'd Rowena pass'd the portal arch. 

Have ye a sense, ye gales, a conscious joy 
In beauty, that with such an artful touch 
And light ye float about her garment folds, 
274 



SAMOR, 



265 



Displaying what is exquisite display'd, 
And thinly scattering the light veil where'er 
Its shadowing may enhance the grace, and swell 
With sweet officiousness the clustering hair 
Where fairest tufts its richness, and let fall 
Where drooping most becomes ; that thus ye love 
To lose yourselves about her, and expire 
Upon her shape, or snow-white robes ? She stood, 
Her ivory arm in a soft curve stretch'd out, 
As only in the obedience of her steeds 
• Rejoicing ; they their necks arch'd proud and high. 
And by her delicate and flower-soft hands 
Svvay'd, as enamour'd of her mastery moved, 
Lovingly on their bright-chafed bits reposed, 
Or in gay sport upon each other fawn'd. 
But as the Monarch she beheld, she caught 
The slack rein up, and with unconscious check 
Delay'd the willing coursers, and her head, 
Upon her snowy shoulder half declined 
In languor of enjoyment, rising wore 
Rosy confusion, and disorder fair 
Transiently on her pride of motion broke. 
Or chance, or meaning wander'd to his face 
Her eye, with half command, entreating half; 
Haughty to all the world, but mild to him, 
Th' all admired admiring, and th' all awing awed- 
She look'd on him, and trembled as she look'd. 
Alone she came, alone she went not on. 



BOOK 11. 



Noon is ablaze in Heaven, but gloom, the gloom 
Of the brown forest's massy vault of shade. 
Is o'er the Kings of Britain ; the broad oaks, 
As in protection of that conclave proud. 
Like some old temple's dome, with mingling shade 

'Meet overhead, around their rugged trunks 
Shovi' like fantastic pillars closely set 
By Druids in mysterious circle, wont 
Here, when the earth abroad was bright and clear 

" With moonshine, to install their midnight rites 
By blue nor earthly kindled fires, while Bards 
Pour'd more than music from their charmed harps. 
Each on his mossy seat, in arms that cast 
.A glimmer which is hardly light, they sit 
Colossal, stern, and still ; on every brow 
Indignant sorrow and sad vengeance lowers. 
Them had the Pagan peasant deem'd his gods. 
In cloudy wrath down stooping from the heavens 
To blast the mighty of mankind, and wreak 
On some old empire ruin and revenge. 

And first majestical, yet mild, arose 
,' W lofty s"hape, nor less than monarch seem'd. 
Whose royal look from souls bold, brave, and free. 
Not stooping slavery claim'd, but upright awe 
And noble homage; yet uncrown'd he wore 
Dominion, him with stately reverence heard 
That armed Senate. " Princes of the land. 
Lords of the old hereditary thrones 
Of Britain, we, the sons of Constantine, 



Emrys and Uther, come not here to charge 

Inconstant counsel on your wisdom, nought 

Arraigning, that the sceptre to our line 

Solemnly given, in those disastrous days, 

When for the Empire of the Occident, 

For Gaul o'er-master'd, and submitted Spain, 

Warr'd Constantine, and warring nobly fell. 

Ye placed in elder hand, our right foregone 

For the more precious public weal; oh, Chiefs, 

'T was well and wisely done ; a stripling's arm 

May rear the kingly standard in its pomp 

To play with Zephyrs under cloudless skies. 

But when the rude storm shakes its ponderous folds 

'T were hard for less than the consummate man 

Aloft to bear it, yet unstooping. Well 

Stemm'd your new standard-bearer Vortigern 

The o'ershadowing tempest, nor abased his front 

Your crown's old glories ; till, alas ! dire change ! 

Dread fall ! the sceptre that ye fondly hoped. 

Would blossom, like the Hebrew Hierarch's rod, 

With the almond bloom of mercy and of love, 

Liker the Egyptian magic-worker's wand 

Became a serpent, withering all your peace 

With its infection : then your virtues wrought 

Your sorrows, from your valour grew your shame. 

Your borders were o'erleap'd, your towns on fire, 

And the land groan'd beneath fierce Rapine's wheels. 

Ye cried unto your King for arms, he sage 

In cold and jealous wisdom fear'd to arm. 

Whose arms might brave himself, and cast control 

On the fierce wanderings of his royal will. 

Saxons must fight our wars, our hard-wrung gold 

Buy us ignoble safety, till the slaves 

Svvell'd into Lords, and realms must pamper 

Our hirelings into Princes : Kent, fair Kent, 

The frontlet of our isle, where yet are seen 

The graves great Cffisar peopled with his dead. 

When on his rear the Britort conqueror hung. 

Where first the banner of the Cross was waved. 

Sinks to a Heathen province. Warriors ! Kings ! 

This must not be among baptized men. 

This cannot be 'mong Britons. Therefore here, 

Here in your presence dare we call again. 

Your throne our throne, and challenge in your love 

A Sovereign's title : by our youth we fell 

From that great height, but Vortigern hath fall'n 

By his own guilt; we therefore rise again 

In majesty renew'd ; he falls, no more 

To soar into the sacred royal seat." 

Thereat with concord loud, and stern acclaim, 

Gave answer that proud Senate, and denounced 

Judgment irrevocable. But with mien 

Somewhat appall'd, as one in high debate, 

And solemn council unassay'd, arose 

Prince Uther: ere he spake his clanging mail 

Smote with fierce stroke, as audience to enchain. 

Himself the battle sound enkindling, high 

His haughty brow and crested helm upflung. 

Thus rude his fiery eloquence pour'd forth. 

" Warriors of Britain ! me nor pomp of words 
Beseems, nor strife of smooth and liquid phrase, 
In the debate of swords, the fray of steeds 
275 



266 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



No combatant unskill'd. I will not boast 

That I have brook'd with Emrys' patient pride 

A sceptre's loss : a boy, I wept to hear 

My father's crown was on a stranger's brow. 

But when my arm 'gan grasp a sword, those tears, 

Those soft unseemly waters, turn'd to hues 

Of burning indignation ; every crown 

Show'd, every kingly title to my ear 

Sounded a scorn and shame. Even at his height 

And plenitude of power I yearn'd to rise 

Against th' enthroned Usurper — now, O Kings ! 

Thus charter'd, thus commission'd, thus array'd, 

With what a noble frenzy will we rush. 

Trampling the wreck of Saxon and of King ; 

Our path shall be as rapid and as bright 

As summer meteor, more pernicious, that 

Waning into the dull unkitidling air. 

We burning, desolating as we pass. 

On, Britons, on! a tyrant fills your throne, 

Nor fitter monument may tyrant find 

Than his throne's ruins; let the flat earth close 

O'er both at once ; the stranger Saxon lords 

Within our isle, the seas that bore him here 

In his storm-braving navy, bear him back 

Weltering and tossing in their drowning surge."' 

Low'ring he stood, still in fierce act of speech, 
Yet speechless. Sudden, then, in dread uproar 
Rose shout of war, with thundering clash of arms 
Mingled, then hurrying spears and nodding helms 
With glittering tumult in the pale gloom flash'd ; 
War, war each voice, each stricken shield denounced. 

Amid the multitudinous din arose 
Solemnly the Bright City's Lord ; down sunk 
Instant all tumult, broke abruptly off 
Fierce voice and clash of arms : so mute and deep 
Settled the silence, the low sound was heard 
Of distant waterfall ; the acorn drop 
From the green arch above. Still and abash'd 
Sate the fierce conclave, while with mild reproof 
Winning all hearts, the gracious Chieftain spake. 

" Brave sight for earth, and heaven ! it doth not fail. 
A nation's cry for freedom and for faith. 
Nor faint, nor deaden in the mist and gloom 
Of this low earth, it takes the morning's wings, 
Passeth the crystal skies, and beats heaven's gate ; 
There glidelh through the gladdening Angel choirs, 
That fan it onward with their favouring plumes, 
To the eternal sapphire tlirone, and him 
That sits thereon, IneflJable. O Kings ! 
Our coimcil thus appealing may not wear 
Seeming of earthly passion, lust of sway. 
Or frenetic vengeance : we must rise in wrath. 
But wear it as a mourner's robe of grief. 
Not as a garb of joy : must boldly strike. 
But like the Roman, with reverted face, 
In sorrow to be so enforced. Brave Chiefs, 
It would misseem a son of this proud isle. 
To trample on the fallen, though a King; 
It would misseem a Christian to rejoice 
Where virtue hath play'd false, and fame's pure light 
Hath sicken'd to dishonourable gloom. 



Vortigern is our foe, no more our King, 

Yet king he hath been, king he had been still, 

Had never his high vaulting pride disdain'd 

The smooth dominion of old u.se, nor striven 

To fix on our impatient necks the yoke 

Of foreign usurpation ; our free land 

Will not endure the heathen Saxon's rule. 

Nor him that rules by heathen Saxon power. 

So march we forth in th' armour of our right, 

From our once King not fiilling off in hate 

Or fickleness, hut by severe constraint 

Of duty to ourselves and to our God. 

So march we forth, and in such state may make 

Our mother land to vaunt of us : raise up. 

Side by side, the fair airs to captivate 

To an approval of our upright deed. 

Our royal banner and the Cross of Christ; 

And move within their cirque of splendour, calm, 

And yet resistless as the bright-maned steeds 

That bear the Morn to disenthrone old Night. 

" And now our kingly sceptre, forced aside. 
By stress and pressure of disorder'd times. 
Devious into an alien hand, reverts 
To the old line ; the heir of Constantine, 
Constans, the elder than this noble pair, 
Stands foremost on succession's golden roll. 
Nor know not I his gentle soul more apt. 
To listen the soft flowing vesper hymn. 
Than danger's spirit-stirring trump, yet deem, 
Thus once forewarn 'd 'tis dangerous to divert 
The stream of royal blood, that broken, pours 
Waters of bitterness and civil strife 
O'er th' harass'd land, and therefore thus hail I 
Constans the King of Britain. Speak I right ? 
I pause, and wait, O Chiefs ! your high award." 

He ceased, nor time for voice or swift acclaim. 
Scowling a sullen laugh of scorn, leap'd forth 
The mountain King, the Sovereign of the lakes 
And dales this side the Caledonian bound ; 
He only, when the Kings sate awe-slruck, stood 
Elate with mocking pity in his frown ; 
A mighty savage, he of God and man 
Alike contemptuous : nought of Christian lore 
Knew he, yet scofT'd unknown, 't was peaceful, meek, 
Thence worthless knowledge. Him delighted more 
rielvellyn's cloud-wrapt brow to climb, and share 
The eagle's stormy solitude ; 'mid wreck 
Of whirlwinds and dire lightnings huge he stood. 
Where his own Gods he deem'd on volleying clouds 
Abroad were riding and black hurricane. 
Them in their misty pride assail'd he oft 
With impious threat, and laugh'd when th' echoing 

glens 
His wild defiance cast unanswer'd back. 
Now with curl'd lip of scorn, and brow uplift. 
Lordly command, not counsel fierce he spake. 
— ' Shame, coward shame ! as though the fowls of 

heaven. 
When in dusk m.ajesty and pride of wing 
Sails forth the monarch eagle, down should stoop 
In homage to the daw. O craven souls ! 
When Snowdon or high Skiddaw's brow is bare, 
27G 



SAM OR. 



207 



To plant the stately standard of revolt 

Upon a molehill. Constans ! that to him 

Caswallon should bow down ; aloft our crown 

Upon the giddy banner staff, that rocks 

On Troynovant's tall citadel, uphang, 

And who the dizzy glory will rend down. 

Or Constans or Caswallon ? The bright throne 

Environ with grim ranks of steel-girt men : 

Huge Saxons black with grisly scars of war. 

Who first will hew to that triumphal seat 

His ruinous path ? Hear, sceptred Britons, hear, 

A counsel worthy the deep thoughts of kings: 

Of valorous achievement and bold deeds 

Be guerdon to the mightiest of our Isle, 

The Sov'reignty of Britain ; spurn my voice. 

And I renounce your counsels, cast you off; 

And with my hardy vassals of the north 

I join the Saxon." — Then fierce sounds again 

Broke out, wan flames of brandish'd armour flash'd. 

In rude disorder and infuriate haste 

Sprang every warrior from his seat, as clouds 

Amid the sultry heaven, thunderous and vast. 

Gather their blackening disarray to burst 

Upon some mountain turret, so the Chiefs 

Banded their fierce confusion to rush on. 

And whelm in his insulting pride the foe. 

He stood as one in joy, and lovver'd a smile. 

With wolf-skin robe flung back, broad shield out- 

stretch'd, 
A battle-axe uplift : vaunting and huge 
As fabled giant on embattled Heaven, 
Glaring not less than utter overthrow. 
And total wreck. Forthwith a youth rush'd out, 
His moony buckler high upheld to bar 
The onset, and with voice, which youthful awe 
Temper'd to tone less resolute, address'd 
The haughty Chieftain. " Father, deem not thou, 
Malwyn confederate in thy lawless thought ; 
Mine is a Briton's soul, a Briton's sword, 
But mortal man that seeks thy life, must pass 
O'er Malwyn's corpse." Back Chief and King recoil'd. 
In breathless admiration. Nobler pride, 
And human joy almost to softness smoothed 
Caswallon's rugged brow. " Well hast thou said, 
Son of Caswallon, worthy of thy sire ! 
On thine own track mount thou to fame, nor swerve 
For man, or more than man." — Awhile the Kings 
Brief parley held, then stately and severe 
Rose Emrys, and pronounced their stern arrest. 

" Caswallon of the Mountains, long our isle 
Hath mark'd thy wavering mood, now friend now 

foe ; 
Now in the Caledonian inroad prompt 
To bear thy skare in rapine, foremost now 
In our high councils. This we further say, 
We scorn thy war, Caswallon, hate thy peace, 
And deem it of our mercy that, unscathed, 
We ban thee from our presence." Nor reply 
Caswallon deign'd ; calm strode he as in scorn 
Of wrath 'gainst foes so lowly. Far was heard 
His tread along the rocky path, the crash 
Of branches rent by his unstooping helm. 

23 21 



They in blank wonder sate, nor wholly quell'd 
Wrath and insulted majesty, with look 
As he were still in presence fix'd, and stem. 
Then spake Prince Emrys, " Not of trivial toil 
To shape the rude trunk of our enterprise 
To smooth perfection ; deeply must we found. 
And strongly build the fabric of our hopes. 
And each must hold his charge. Be, Samor, thine 
To bear our brother Constans Britain's crown. 
In name of our assembled Kings. Be min6 
From the Armoric shore. King Hoel's realm, 
(Our father's brother, Hoel) to embark 
The succours of his high-famed Chivalry. 
Thou, Uther, to the West ; each other King 
Unto his own, at signal of revolt 
To lead his armed Vassalage abroad." 

So saying, each departed ; fell again 
The ancient silence on the solemn place. 

Together from the forest pass'd the friends, 
Samor and Elidure ; below their way 
Went wandering on through flowery meads, or sank 
Beneath green arches dim of beechen shade. 
Around the golden hills in summer wealth 
Bask'd in the sunshine ; on a river bank 
Long gleaming down its woodland course, reposed 
Many a white hamlet : even fierce shrines of war 
Wore aspect mild of peace ; towers dark of yore 
And rugged in the Roman war array. 
With wanton ivy and grey moss o'ergrown. 
Their green crowns melted in the azure heavens. 

"Oh grief! o'er yon fair meads and smiling lawns 
Must steeds of carnage batten, men of blood 
Their fell magnificence of murderous pomp 
Pavilion in yon placid groves of peace. 
The blood-thirst savages of wood and air. 
In meet abodes of wilderness and woe. 
Shroud their abhorred revels; the gaunt wolf 
Prowls gloomy o'er the wintry blasted heath ; 
Brood (Jesolate on some bare mountain peak 
Raven and screaming vulture. Man, fell man. 
Envious of bliss he scorns, 'mid haunts of peace. 
Spots fair and blissful, the rare stars of earth, 
Plays ever his foul game of spoil and death. 
Ruthless, then vaunts himself Creation's pride, 
Supreme o'er all alone in deeds of blood." 

Thus Elidure ; him Samor, from deep trance 
Wakening, address'd : " Soft man of peace, my prayer 
Would ask of heaven no theatre of strife 
Save yon fair plain : there forth the weak would start 
In the tumultuous valour of despair. 
The timorous proudly tower in scorn of death : 
There, where each tree, each dell, each grassy knoll. 
Lovely from memory of some past delight. 
Is kindred to the soul ; his house of prayer, 
The altar of his bridal vow, the font 
Of his sweet infant's baptism, kindred all. 
Holiest and last, his fathers' peaceful graves : 
Oh, were all Britain, like yon beauteous plain. 
Blissful and free, that angels there might walk 
Forgetful of their heavenly bowers of light, 
277 



268 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Friend of my boyhood, these all-conquering foes, 
Who fetter the free winds, and ride the sea 
Kinglike, their menacing prows would turn aloof. 
And bitterly, in baffled lust of prey. 
Curse the proud happiness that mock'd their might." 

Lo, here he paused, gay fdes of dazzling light 
Slow o'er the plain advancing, indistinct 
From their full brightness ; gradual the long blaze 
Broke into form, and lance and bow and helm, 
Standard and streamer, chariot and fair steed, 
Start from the mingled splendour. On their height 
Unseen, the Chieftains watch'd the winding pomp. 
And all before the azure-vested Bards 
From glancing instruments shook bridal glee. 
Then came the gorgeous chariots, rough with gold, 
And steeds their proud heads nodding with rich 

weight 
Of frontlet wreathed with flowers and shadowy 

plumes ; 
Therein sate ladies robed in costly state. 
Each like a Queen ; the noble charioteers, 
Briton in garb, with purple mantle loose. 
O'er steel, in network bright, or scale o'er scale, 
Glittering, and aventayle barr'd close and firm, 
As yet the gaudy traitors shamed to meet 
The cold keen glance of countrymen betray'd. 
Dark in their iron arms, some wildly girt 
^Vith Caledonian spoils, their yellow hair 
Down from the ca.sque in broad luxuriant flow 
Spreading, and lofty banner wide display'd. 
Whereon a milk-while courser reinless shone. 
Paced forth the Saxon warriors. High o'er all, 
Tempestuous Horsa, chafing his hot steed. 
And Ilengist with his wreath of amber beads,* 
His hoary strength, in spite of age or toil, 
A tower of inight ; with that tall grove of spears, 
Circled, and rarapire close of serried shields. 
The bridegroom Monarch rode, his bright attire 
Peaceful, as fitting nuptial pomp, his robe 
Rich-floating strew'd the earth with purple shade, 
And on his lofty brow a regal crown, 
Bright as a wreath of sunbeams ; high his arm 
The ivory sceptre bore of kingly sway : 
Yet who his mien and bearing watch'd had seen 
Dim gleam of jealous steel, or lurking mail 
Beneath those glorious trappings, for his gaze, 
Now jocund, changed anon to wandering stare. 
Fearful and wild, as the still air were rife 
With vengeful javelins showering death ; his pace 
Hurried, yet tardy, as of one who rides 
O'er land still tottering with an earthquake shock. 

And him beside, on snowy palfrey, deck'd 
With silver bells its pendent mane profuse, 
Of silver and of stainless ermelin 
The bright caparisons, and all her robes 
White as of woven lily cups, the Bride 
ISIajestic rode as on a waving throne. 
Her sunbright hair she waved, and smiled around. 
As though, of less than kingly Paramour 

* He is sn Jenoruti^d by ihfi Welsh Poets. See Transl. ofthe 
Biut. of Tysilio, by I'eter Roberts. 



Scornful, she said, Lo, Britain, through your land 
I lead the enthralled sovereign of your isle. 
Yet so surpassing fair, brief instant wish'd 
Those wrathful Briton Chiefs their leafy screen 
A thin transparent cloud : of his high charge 
Brief while forgetful, Samor stood entranced. 
Fearing her form should fleet too swift away. 

Came it from earth or air, yon savage shape. 
His garb, if garb it be, of shaggy hair 
Close folding o'er his dusky limbs, his locks 
And waving matted beard like cypress boughs 
On bleak heath swaying to the midnight storm ? 
Came he from yon deep wood ? On the light spray 
No leaf is stirring. On the winged winds 
Rode he ? No breeze awakes the noontide air. 
'Mid that arm'd throng, dismaying, undismay'd. 
With a strange eye dilated, as unused 
To common sights of earth, and voice that seem'd 
Rarely to hold discourse with human ears, 
" Joy," and again, and thrice he uttered " Joy." 
Cower'd Horsa on his palsied steed ; aghast. 
As toiling to despise the thing he fear'd. 
Sale Hengist. " Joy to Bridegroom and to Bride ! 
Why should not man rejoice, and earth be glad ? 
Beyond the sphere of man, the round of earth, 
There 's loud rejoicing; 'tis not in the heavens ! 
And many ministrant Angels shake their wings 
In gladness, wings that are not plumed with light. 
The dead are jocund, not the dead in bliss. 
Your couch is blest — by all whose blessings blast. 
All things unlovely gratulate your love. 
I see the nuptial pomp, the nuptial song 
I hear, and full the pomp, for Hate, and Fear, 
And excellent Dishonour, and bright Shame, 
And rose-eheek'd Grief and jovial Discontent, 
And that majestic herald. Infamy, 
And that high noble. Servitude, are there, 
A blithesome troop, a gay and festive crew. 
And the Land's curses are the bridal hymn ; 
Sweetly and shrilly doth th' accordant Isle 
Imprecate the glad Hymenean song. 
So joy again, I say, to Britain's King, 
That taketh to his bosom Britain's fate. 
Her beautiful destruction to his bed. 
And joy to Britain's Queen, who bears her Lord 
So bright a dowry and profuse, long years 
Of war and havoc, and fair streams of blood. 
And plenteous ruin, loss of crown and fame. 
And full perdition of the immortal soul ; 
So thrice again I utter 'joy,' 'joy,' 'joy!' " 

Then up sprung spear to strike, and bicker'd bow : 
Ere spear could strike, or shaft could fly, the path 
Was bare and vacant ; shape nor sound remain'd ; 
Only the voice of Vortigern moan'd out, 
" Merlin," — and on the long procession pass'd. 

Down in a quiet dale, where beechen groves 
With interchanging gold and glossy green 
O'ermantled the smooth slopes, that lell around 
Like a foir amphitheatre, beneath 
A brook went wand'ring through fresh meadow banks, 

278 



SAMOR. 



269 



With a cool summer dashing, here the Chiefs 
The royal Hermit met, his gentle brow 
Smooth as a slumbering Angel's plumes (effaced 
All traces of this rude and wearing earth, 
All brands of fiery passions, wild desires) 
Wore that calm holiness the sainted dead 
Smile on the visions of their loved on earth : 
His life was like a sleep, with heavenly sights, 
And harmonies, as of angelic sounds 
Visited ever, nor his barren heart 
Touch'd not the light affections, trembled not 
His spirit with love's fervent swell, but all 
Most wont to bear man's soul to earth, round him 
As the thin morning clouds around the lark, 
Gather'd, to float him upward to the heavens. 

They at his feet down laid the kingly crown, 
Fultiird their lofty mission. He, the while. 
With that mild sadness he had watch'd the leaves 
Drip from the sere autumnal bough, survey'd 
Its stately glittering. " Man of earth, why mock, 
With gaudy pageantry, and titled pomp. 
The frail and transient pilgrims of this w^orld. 
The fading flag-flower on yon streamlet brink, 
Were garland meeter for our mortal brows 
Than yon rich blaze of gems." " Prince," Samor 

spake, 
" Sweet is it down the silent vale of life 
To glide away, of all but Heaven forgot. 
Forgetting all but Heaven. Of king-born men, 
Lords of mankind, high delegates of Heaven, 
Loftier the doom, their rare prerogative 
The luxury of conferring bliss. Oh, Prince ! 
Not by the stream to slumber, nor to waste 
Idly in joyous dreams the drowsy hours, 
Hath Heaven thy kingly heritage ordain'd ; 
Set badge of Empiry on thy brow : of god 
The noblest service is to serve mankind. 
To save a nation all a mortal's jx)wer, 
To imitate the Saviour of the world." 

Calm answer'd Constans : " Earth's exalted fame. 
Grandeurs and glories gleam upon my soul 
Like wintery sun-light on a plain of snow. 
With prayers, a Hermit's arms, I aid your cause — 
Farewell. Why pause ye, as to question more 
The wisdom of my choice — lo, yon fair orb ; 
How spotless the fine azure where he holds 
His secret palace, knows not his pure light 
A stain of dimness, till th' abode of men 
Pours o'er it its infectious mists." " Oh, Prince ! 
'Tis not the glory of that peerless light, 
The barren glittering, the unfruitful waste 
Of splendour on the still inanimate skies; 
It is the life, the motion, and the joy 
It breathes along this world of man, the broad 
Munificence of blessing that awakes. 
And in its rapturous gratitude springs up, 
To glorify its bounteous source of pride." 

" I see thy brow at thine own words on fire ; 
Mine, Samor, yet is calm and cold." " Dost thou, 
Constans, all title, claim, and right renounce 



To Britain's throne ? " " Even free as I renounce 
The everlasting enemy of man." 
" Will thy voice mingle with the general cry, 
"Long live King Emrys ? ' " — " Long may Emrys live. 
Even the eternal life beyond the grave." 

" Yet one word more : 'tis perilous in the storm 
For the tall pine, nor less, in evil days. 
For the high-born and exalted of the state. 
The Saxon blood-hounds are abroad for prey. 
Seek thou some quiet solitude remote, 
Beyond their prowling range." — His arm to Heaveiv 
Slowly uplifted, " Will they reach me there ?" 
Spake the meek Hermit, " there is rest secure." 

They parted ; gentle Elidure alone. 
Lingering with somewhat of an envious gaze, 
View'd the deep quiet of that placid dell. 

That night were seen along the dusky wood. 
Of more than human stature moving forms, 
Pale faces circled with black iron helms. 
Not of the Briton shape their garb or arms ; 
Stealthy their pace and slow ; the peasants thought 
Demons of evil that sad night had power. 
And pray'd Heaven's grace to guard the saintly man. 

At morn roved forth the peasant, down the dale 
His dog went bounding to the Hermit's cell. 
For all mute creatures loved the man of God. 
A quick and desolate moaning nearer call'd 
The peasant ; in ofl!icious grief the dog 
Stood licking the cold hand that drooping hung 
Lifeless ; the mild composure of his brow 
On the cross rested ; praying he had died. 
And his cold features yet were smiling prayer. 



BOOK III. 



Orie.\t the bright-hair'd Charioteer of heaven 
Pour'd daylight from his opal wheels, and struck 
From the blue pavement of the sky clear flakes 
Of azure light upon the Eastern sea. 
And as the grey mists slowly curl'd away, 
Rose the white cliffs of Kent, like palace fair. 
Or fane of snowy marble, to enshrine 
Blue Amphitrite, or the Sea-Gods old 
Of Pagan mariner. Rode tall below 
The Saxon navy, as from midnight sleep 
Wakening ; the grey sails in the breeze of morn 
'Gan tremble, gleaming oars flash in the spray. 
The Sea-Kings on the beach in parley stern 
Were met, nor less than nation's doom and fate 
Of kingdoms in their voice. Lo, in the midst 
Stood huge Caswallon; word of mild salute 
Deign'd not, but thus addrest the Ocean Lord. 

"Saxon ! that o'er this fair and princely isle 
Thou wouldst win empire by the sword of war, 
I marvel not, arraign not — 't is a dream. 
Noble as o'er the heavens to walk abroad, 
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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Companion of yon bright majestic sun. 
Now, by my glory, Saxon, mortal peer 
Never Caswallon brook'd, save thee alone, 
Thee, rival in his race of pride and power. 
Arm'd with myself and all th' embattled North, 
Not Roman Britons, sons of sires who dash'd 
The purple Conquerors' haughty wall to earth. 
And trampled their strewn ramparts; who ne'er 

deign'd 
Barter for gaudy robe and marble pile. 
Fierce naked freedom, and wild mountain cave, 
Will I, and thou with Saxon spears begirt, 
Bow this fair Britain to our lordly sway. 
Then will we two, from pale perplexed earth 
Seen, like twin meteors battling in high heaven. 
On some lone eminence wage glorious strife, 
Sole empire meed of conquest, of defeat 
Utter annihilation, dark and full. 
Solace and lofty comfort." Bold he paused. 
Nor Hengist with pale sign of awe or dread 
Shamed the proud peerage, but with hardy speech 
Guileful, won faith by seeming scorn of guile. 

" Briton, to dare high deeds, and to disown. 
Argues a wavering valour; the firm soul 
Vaunts resolute its lofty dangerous scope. 
To us our gods o'er ocean and its shores 
Kingly dominion and wide sway have given ; 
Were insult to our might and base reproach. 
The freedom of one sea-girt isle, to thee 
Honouring, not fearing, 'mid our prime we grant 
Transcendent state, and eminence of power. 
Now speed we of th' immortal Powers in Heaven, 
Our high omniscient Fathers, to demand 
If on the eternal shield of fate be graven 
Ruin or Conquest, ere to bold emprize 
We gird our brazen arms." — " Of mighty men 
The gods are mighty, whom the Saxon fears, 
The paramount of men, 't were rash to scorn. 
No calm and sunshine deities of peace." — 

So spake Caswallon, the mild faith of Christ 
Scoffing with covert mockery ; thus th' All Wise 
The imaginations of the proud on earth 
Silent endures, till some brief point of time 
Crumbles the high-built insolence of years. 

" Wilt thou behold our gods?" fierce Horsa cried. 
" Then mount the bark, abroad her wings are spread, 
And fleet along the obedient deep she speeds. 
Fear not, proud Briton." — "Fear!" Caswallon cried ; 
All iron as he stood, o'er surf, surge, wave 
He bounded, hollow rang his heavy arms. 
The bark her tall side to the troubled waves 
Stoop'd groaning; nor delay 'd the Ocean King. 

" Brother, farewell ! not singly the bold wolf 
Scatters the mountain herd ; in grim repose 
He rests expectant of his kindred troop. 
Numberless from their shaggy dens they sweep. 
And spacious o'er the antler'd monarch's realm 
Spreads the wide ravage of their muster'd might." 
Stern Horsa bow'd assent, yet paused to watch 
The proud bark tilting o'er the azure plain. 
Stately she rode her path of light, her sails 



In dalliance with the courteous winds : bold Man ! 
Well may thy full heart bound : in earth and air 
The thunder-maned steed, the eagle throned 
In the pavilion of his plumes, stand forth 
Creation's glories ; but the noblest shape 
That walks the deep thy workmanship sublime 
Owneth, and starts from thee to life. Vaunt thou. 
Yet humbly vaunt, all greatness is from God. 

What dolphin glancing in his silver sport, 
More graceful with translucent pinion parts 
The liquid azure ? what Leviathan, 
Huge heaving on the thick Norwegian foam, 
More lordly than the white-wing'd bark, that wafts 
The Sea King o'er his empire ? the fair waves 
Rise in their gamesome turbulence, and pay 
Wild homage to that royal Mariner. 

The motion and the murmur of the deep. 
The rushing of the silent, solemn sky. 
Each in its deep abyss and pure expanse. 
Seeming its secret mysteries of might. 
Its ruling soul of everlastifig change. 
To veil from mortal knowledge, ever pour. 
O'er savage ev'n and rude, tumultuous awe. 
And exultation of a pleasing dread. 
From dizzy notions of infinity. 
Vague sense of ever-during sights and sounds, 
Inactive though the body, the free spirit. 
Vagrant along the illimitable void. 
Perils uncouth and rich uncertainties 
Ranges in restless round, plucks treasures rare. 
That gem the caverns of the hoary deep, 
Or bathes with sea-maids in their crystal bowers. 
Or with gay creatures and fantastical 
Peoples some dreamy land ; such joys of old 
Lured the fierce Saxon from his darksome woods. 
To launch along the vast and barren sea. 
Such joys through this long voyage, wean'd brief 

while 
From thoughts of war and war-won empire wide, 
Haughty Caswallon, or from him assumed 
Fierce aspect, and a battailous character. 

'T was midnight, but a rich unnatural dawn 
Sheets the fired Arctic heaven ; forth springs an arch, 
O'erspanning with a crystal pathway pure 
The starry sky, as though for gods to march, 
With show of heavenly warfare daunting earth. 
To that wild revel of the northern clouds. 
That now with broad and bannery light distinct, 
Stream in their restless wavings to and fro, 
While the sea-billows gleam them mellower back ; 
Anon like slender lances bright upstart. 
And clash and cross with hurtle and with flash, 
Tilting their airy tournament. — " Brave signs," 
Cried Hengist ; " lo, our gods their standards rear. 
And with glad omen of immortal strife 
Salute our high-wing'd purpose." — " Yea (return 'd 
Caswallon) from mine own Helvellyn's brow. 
Never a brighter conflict in the skies 
Taught me that war was dear in Heaven : dream ye 
Of tamer faith in gentle Southern skies 
Your smooth and basking deities ; our North 
280 



SAMOR. 



271 



Woos not with tender hues and sunny smiles 
Soft worship, but emblazons all the air 
With semblance of celestial strife, unveils 
To us of their empyreal halls the pomp, 
The secret majesty of godlike war." 

Oh Lord of Lords ! incessant thus assail'd 
That pagan with his frantic railings Thee, 
Th' Ineffable, yet worshipp'd of thy power 
A faint and pale effect, reflection dim 
From thy smil-blinding glories. On they sail'd. 
Till o'er the dark deep now the wintry winds 
Swept on their murky pinions, huge and high 
The liquid legions of the main arose ; 
Like snow upon the sable pines, the foam 
Hung hoary on their tower'd fronts ; but slow, 
Like a triumphant warrior, their bold bark 
Wore onward, now upon the loftiest height 
Shaking its streamers' gay defiance, now 
With brave devotion to the prone abyss 
Down rushing. But the sternest Saxon cheek 
Put not to shame that dauntless Landsman ; he 
In the strong passion of a new delight 
On the fierce tumult feasts, and almost grieves. 
When now beneath the haven rocks embay'd. 
The angry waves seem wearying to repose, 
And the slack sails slow droop their flagging folds. 

Their port was southward of that Strait, where 
bursts 
The Baltic, with her massy waves of ice 
Encumbering far and wide the Northern main. 

South, North, and East, the rapid heralds speed, 
Summoning from fen or forest, moor or wild, 
Britain ! on thee to banquet, all who bathe 
In Weser, Elbe, or Rhine, their saffron locks, 
Hertog and Erie and King ; the huntsman bold 
Of bear, or bison, o'er the quaking moss, 
Or grim Vikinger, who but sues his gnds 
For tempests, so upon some wealthy coast 
Bursts unforeseen his midnight frigate fierce, 
And freights its greedy hold with amplest spoil. 

And now have Hengist and Casv^•allon climb'd 
The chariot of the Oracle ; no wheels 
Bear that strange car ; like wind along the sea. 
It glides along the rapid rein-deer's track. 
Beauteous those gentle rein-deer arch'd their necks, 
And cast their palmy antlers back, and spread 
Their broad red nostrils to the wind : they hear 
Old Hengist's voice, like arrows down the gale, 
Like shot-stars through the welkin start they forfti. 
The car slides light, the deer bound fleet : they pass 
Dark leagues of pine and fir, the filmy light. 
Shivering with every motion of the wind 
On their brown path lies tremulous, o'er them sails. 
Heard through the dismal foliage hissing shrill. 
And hoarser groaning of the swaying boughs, 
The funeral descant of the ominous birds. 
Around them the prophetic milk-white steeds,* 



* Proprium gentis, equorum quoque pracaagia ac monitus 
expetiri : publice alunlur iisdem nemoribus ac lacis. Candidi, 
23* 



Their necks yet virgin of the taming curb. 
With all their loose long glories, arch, and pass 
In solemn silence, and regardless paw 
The unechoing earth. But that old German, set 
Inflexible with bolder hand to draw 
The veil of dusk futurity, disdains 
These tamer omens. Still the car slides light. 
The deer bound fleet, they pause not, save to quaff 
The narrow cruise, to share their scanty store. 
Like swallows o'er the glassy rivers smooth. 
O'er the pellucid lake, with glittering breast 
Yet wrinkled with its rippling waves, they skim; 
The dead unstirring ocean bears them on ; 
Amid the immortal ice-hills wind they now'. 

In restless change, God's softer summer works 
Glitter and fade, are born and die ; but these, 
Endiadem'd by undissolving snows. 
High Potentates of winter's drear domain, 
Accumulate their everlasting bulk. 
Eternal and imperishable, stand 
Amid Creation's swift inconstant round, 
In majesty of silence undisturb'd. 
Save when from their long menacing brows they 

shake 
The ruining Avalanche ; unvisited 
By motion, but of sailing clouds, when sleets 
From their unwasting granary barb their darts. 
And the grim North-wind loads his rimy wings. 
Nor trace of man, save many a fathom deep, 
Haply dark signs of some tall people strange. 
That walk'd the infant earth, may shroud profound 
Their legends inaccessible. They soar 
In headlong precipice, or pyramid 
Linking the earth and heaven, to which the piles 
Where those Egyptian despots rot sublime, 
Or even that frantic Babylonian tower. 
Were frivolous domes for laughter and for scorn. 

Nor wants soft interchange of vale, where smiles 
White mimicry of foliage and thin flower. 
Feathery and fanlike spreads the leafy ice. 
With dropping cup, and roving tendril loose. 
As though the glassy dews o'er flower and herb 
Their silken moisture had congeal'd, and yet 
Within that slender veil their knots profuse 
Blossom'd and blush'd with tender life, the couch 
Less various where the fabled Zephyr fans 
With his mild wings his Flora's bloomy locks ; 
But colourless and cold, these flowering vales 
Seem meeter for decrepit Winter's head 
To lie in numb repose. The car slides light, 
The deer bound fleet, the long grey wilderness 
Hath something of a roseate glimmering dim. 
And widens still its pale expanse : when lo, 
A light of azure, wavering to display 
No sights, no shapes of darkness and of fear. 
Tremblingly flash'd the inconstant meteor light. 
Showing thin forms, like virgins of this earth. 
Save that all signs of human joy or grief, 

et nuUo mortal! opere contact!, quos pressoa sacro curru sacer- 
dos ac rex vel pr!ncep3 eivitat!s comilantur, hinnitueque ac 
fremitus observant.— TACIT. Germ. 

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272 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The flush of passion, smile or tear had seem'd 
On the fix'd brightness of each dazzling cheek, 
Strange and unnatural : statues not unlike 
By nature, in fantastic mood congeal'd 
From purest snow, the fair of earth to shame, 
Surpassing beauteous: breath of mortal life 
Heaved not their bosoms, and no rosy blood 
Tinged their full veins ; yet moved they, and their 

steps 
Were harmony. But three of that bright troop, 
The loveliest and the wildest, stood aloof, 
Enwrapt by what in human form were like 
Impulse divine, of their fine nature seem'd 
The eternal instinct. Them no less survey'd 
Caswallon with the knitted brow of scorn : 
Bitter ho spake — "No marvel Saxon souls 
Revel in war's delights, so stern, so fierce 
Their deities." Severe with wrath suppress'd, 
As one ill brooking that irreverent mirth 
ScofT'd the feign'd lore, himself ne'er dared to doubt, 
Answer'd the son of Woden. "These, proud Chief, 
So snowy, soft, and airy, gentle, these 
Are ministers of destiny and death. 
The viewless Riders of the battle field : 
When sounds the rushing of their sable steeds, 
Down sink the summon'd mighty, and expand 
Valhalla's cloudy portals ; to their thrones 
They the triumphant strangers lead, and pour 
Lavish the eternal beverage of the Gods. 
Mark thou yon bright-hair'd three ? and would thy 

soul 
Grasp the famed deeds of ancient time, or know 
The master spirits of our present world ? 
Lo Gudur, she whose deep mysterious soul 
Treasureth the past, and Rosta, who beholds 
All acts and agents of this living earth ; 
She too is there before whose spacious sight 
The years that have not been start up and live. 
Who reads within the soul of man unborn 
The unimagined purpose, of the sage 
Skulda the sagest. Ask and thou shall know." 
— " I am not King of Britain, have not been ; 
Hateful the present and the pa.st, my soul 
Thirsteth for what shall be."— Then Hengist spake 
In tone of mix'd authority and prayer, 
" Queen of the Future, Valkyr, hear and speak, 
Speak to the Son of Woden." — All the troop 
Instant the thin bright air absorb'd alone. 
Stood SUulda with her white hair waving wide. 
As trembling on the verge of palpable being, 
Ready to languish too in light away. 

"O'er Britain's isle doth Woden to his sons 
Give empire ?" She, but in no h\iman tone, 
E'er from the soul's emotion harsh or soft, 
One glittering rich unvarying tone replied, 
" To thine, but not to thee ?" — And, " I am thine," 
Caswallon shouted loud, and sternly shook 
His visionary sceptre. "Whence the foe 
Fatal to Hengist, and to Hengist's sway ?" 
•' Not from the mountain, Saxon, from the Vale." 
Heard, heeded not the Mountain Chief that strain 



Dire and ill-boding, or if heard, disdain'd 

Adverse what prosperous seem'd a voice from Heaven. 

" By what rich rite," he cried, " may Briton Chief 
Win favour from high Woden ?" — "Not the blood 
Of steed or stag ; a flower of earth must fade. 
Blest o'er all virgins of the earth, the chaste. 
The beautiful, by Heaven ordain'd to lead 
The souls of valiant men to the pale hall 
Of the Immortal ; air her path, and Heaven 
Her dwelling, with the fair and brave of earth 
Her sole communion ?" — "By my future throne, 
Proud office for the daughter of a King! 
A royal damsel, mine own blood, shall join 
Your cloudy mysteries." — A hue like joy 
O'erspread her face and form, while slow 
Into the air she brighten'd indistinct 
Even now, and now invisible. Sad seem'd 
In gloomy converse with his own dark mind 
Old Hengist, nor despair'd that bold of soul. 
In pride of human wisdom to revoke 
The irrevocable, what himself deem'd fate 
By force or fraud to master or elude. 

O glorious eminence of virtuous fame. 
Glorious from peril I Warrior of the Vales, 
Fate-signal'd Samor, vaunt not thou the love 
Of a blind people, or weak prince : thy boast 
The sworn unerring hate of Britain's foe. 

So pass'd they forth, one in wild joy elate. 
Already in his high disdainful thought 
Wielding supremacy; each of fix'd fate 
Nought heeding, but what fed his fierce desires. 

The car slides light, the deer bound fleet, nor sun 
Nor star in all the hazy heavens. Snow, snow, 
Above, around, beneath. Unblinded yet, 
Drive on the kingly charioteers, and shake 
The showery plumage from their locks ; fast fades 
The long pale plain, the giant ice-liills sink, 
Lakes, rivers, seas are patient of their speed. 
Huge, dim, and dusk the fore&l pines rush back. 
Now pant the brown deer by that ocean bay. 

How desolate are now thy unpiough'd waves. 
Dark Baltic! wandering Elbe, thy icy breast 
How silent of thy hunters! Sleep thou calm 
Amid thy wanton vineyards, Gaul ! no more 
The blue-eyed Plunderers, bridging thy broad Rhine, 
Waste thy inebriate harvests' clustering pride. 
Sing songs of joy, soft Italy ! o'er thee 
But Alaric and Attila drive on , 

Their chariot-wheels of conquest, this their peer 
In majesty of havoc, in renown 
Of devastation, this, the fiercer third 
Of human Furies, scapest thou : therefore sing. 
Soft Italy ; for lo, at Hengist's call. 
Vast Germany dispeoples her wide realm. 
Deserts to silence and the beasts of game 
Her long and soundless forests. Seems the North 
The forge of Nations, in one fleet t' exhaust 
Her iron wealth of warriors ; helmed high 
282 



SAMOR. 



27S 



On the prophetic Valkyr thought, and glanced 
Proud pity on the legends of their praise. 

Advanced Argantyr, his bold grasp apart, 
As peer his peer, led Ilengiat. " Thou and I, 
Saxon, must have our compact; dark 1 know 
Thy paths of strife, while my frank valour loves 
The broad bright sunshine ; thou by sleight and art 
Minest thy slow conquest ; I with naked sword 
Affront my peril, till its menacing height 
Bow to the dust before me ; for bold war, 
For noonday batthng, tender I mine arm. 
But no allegiance own to subtle craft ; 
To peace Argantyr doth revolt when thou 
Array 'st stern war in the smooth garb of guile." 
"The weak, Argantyr, and the friendless, need 
Such politic skill ; I take thee at thy word. 
Who skulks a fox when he dare prowl a wolf? 
Power charters force; where strong Argantyr stands 
Is power. — And now aboard, brave Chiefs, aboard, 
Or the soft spring o'ertakes our tardy keels, 
And with her slothful breezes smooths the skies." 

Wonderous that ocean armament ; in shoals 
Ride boat and bark, innumcrous as the waves 
That show white slender streaks of foam between 
Their tawny sides, save here and there towers up 
Some statelier admiral in lordly height 
O'er the frail comm'nalty, whose limber ribs 
Are the light wicker, cased with sturdy hides 
Their level bottoms smooth. t Oh, that frail Man, 
Loose-woven frame of dissoluble stuff, 
Uncharter'd from the boisterous license rude 
Of pitiless winds and fierce unfetter'd waves, 
To that unshackled libertine, wild Chance, 
Amenable, unguarantied from burst 
And inroad of invading surge, that he, 
With such thin barrier between life and death, 
Should sit and skim along the ocean waste. 
Careless as maiden in a flowery field ; 
Valour or frenzy is it ? They their toil 
Ply nimbly, and with gallant oar chastise 
The insurgent billows, their despotic sails 
Lords o'er the wild democracy of air. 

Less vast, and mann'd witli tamer, feebler spirits, 
In later days, against our Virgin Queen, 
The Spaniard's mad Armada; but the flag 
Of Howard, and the Almighty's stormy hand, 
Belied their braggart baptism, so they won 
Brave conquest ! graves in ocean's barren caves. 
Or on the whirlpool-girded Oreades. 

But onward rides that Pagan fleet : young Spring 
Hath scarcely tipt the leafless woods with green ; 
Tyne's jetty tide is blanch'd with German oars. 

Now whither with that dark-brow'd priest set forth 
Old Hengist and the Briton Mountain Lord ? 
Is it, fell Hengist, that Caswallon's name 



The Suevian with his* towery knotted locks, 
Frisian and Scandinavian, Cimbrian rich 
In ancient vauntage of his sires, who clomb 
The Alpine snows, and shook free PJome with dread. 
And other nameless, numberless, sweep forth 
Their bands; but three almost in nations came: 
The Jute, the Anglian, and the Saxon, each 
Leaving earth bare for many a lonesome league, 
His wives, his children, and his Gods embarks, 
On the fierce quest of peril and of power. 

Then forth arose each Chieftain to salute 
The pole-star of their baleful galaxy. 
Prime Architect of ruin : him who sway'd 
Their hot marauding, desultory strife 
To cool and steady warfare, of their limbs 
The domineering soul. As each pass'd on 
Shook up the Scald his harsh-strung shell, and cast 
The war-tones of each nation to the winds ; 
And Hengist with imperious flattery met 
Each tall and titled Leader: " Art thou here, 
Bold Frisian Hermangard ! a broader isle 
And fairer than thy azure Rhine laves round, 
Spreads for thee her green valleys. How brook'st 

thou. 
Strong Scandinavian Lodbrog, thou the Chief 
Of the renown'd Vikinger, while the waves 
So nobly riot with the wintry storms. 
The tame and steadfast land ? Now freely leap, 
Arngrim, along thy Suevian forests brown 
The bear and foam-tusk'd wild boar ; let them leap, 
A braver game is up on Britain's 8hore= 
O Cerdic, grey in glory, young in power. 
The Drave ran purple with thy boyish deeds, 
A darker, redder dye, o'er silver Thames 
Shall spread before thy ancient battle-axe. 
Ho, Offa, the rich-flowing mead hath worn 
Your Jutland cups, beneath the British helms 
Capacious goblets smooth and fair await 
Offa's carousals. Heir of Cimbric fame.t 
Frollio, how these, of late the Roman's slaves. 
Will the race daunt, who set our Thor afront 
The Roman's Capitolian Jove. And thou, 
My gold-hair'd brother, are the British maids. 
Or British warriors, Abisa, the first 
In the fierce yearnings of thy boyish soul ? 
And lo the mighty Anglian ; oh, unfold 
Ocean more wide, more wealthy realms, too brief. 
Too narrow for Argantyr's fame, the round 
Of this the choice, the Sovereign of thine isles." 

Thereat a sound of clattering shields arose. 
As all the rocks around with one harsh rift 
Had rent asunder : " Fair must be the land. 
And brave the conquest, plenteous the renown, 
Where Hengist leads strong Woden's sceptred sons !" 

But inly laugh'd Caswallon, as he long'd 
VV^ith each or all to match his Briton strength ; 



* Insigne genlis obliquare crineni, nodoque substringere— In 
aUitudinem quandam et terrorem, adituri bella, compte, ut 
hostium oculis, ornanlur.— TACIT. Germ. 38. 

t Cimbri parva nunc civiiaa sed gloria ingens. — TACIT. 
Oerm. 



X Primum cana salix, madefacto vimine parvam 
Texilur in piippim, CEesoque induta, juvenco, 
Vecloris patiens tumidum super emicat amnem ; 
Sic Venetus slagnante Pado, fusoque Britannus 
Navigat oceano. LUCAN. 

283 



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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Paragon thine in British hate, close link'd 
By fellowship in nameless rites accurst, 
Be hence more deeply, execrably thine ? 
Or, from weak credence in such impious Gods, 
Urgest thou that fell sacrifice ? Oh, where 
The spotless Virgin doom'd (so wild the creed) 
The Valkyr's airy troop to join, and glide 
Immortal through Valhalla's cloudy halls ? 



BOOK IV. 



Sunk was the sun, and up the eastern heaven, 
Like maiden on a lonely pilgrimage, 
Moved the meek Star of Eve ; the wandering air 
Breathed odours; wood, and waveless lake, like man, 
Slept, weary of the garnish babbling day. 

Dove of the wilderness, thy snowy wing 
In slumber droops not ; Lilian, thou alone, 
'Mid the deep quiet, wakest. Dost thou rove. 
Idolatrous of yon majestic moon, 
That like a crystal-throned queen in Heaven, 
Seems with her present deity to hush 
To beauteous adoration all the earth ? 
Might seem the solemn silent mountain tops 
Stand up and worship, the translucent streams 
Down the hill sides glittering cherish the pure light 
Beneath the shadowy foliage o'er them flung 
At intervals ; the lake, so silver white, 
Glistens, all indistinct the snowy swans 
Bask in the radiance cool ; doth Lilian muse 
To that apparent Queen her vesper hymn ? 

Nursling of solitude, her infant couch 
Never did mother watch, within the grave 
She slept unwaking; scornful turn'd aloof 
Caswallon, of those pure instinctive joys 
By fathers felt, when playful infant grace, 
Touch'd with a feminine softness, round the heart 
Winds its light maze of undefined delight, 
Contemptuous ; he with haughty joy beheld 
His boy, fair Malwyn, him in bossy shield 
Rock'd proudly, him upborne to mountain steep 
Fierce and undaunted, for their dangerous nest 
To battle with the eagle's clamorous brood. 

But she the while from human tenderness 
Estranged, and gentler feelings that light up 
The cheek of youth with rosy joyous smile, 
Like a forgotten lute, play'd on alone 
By chance-caressing airs, amid the wild 
Beauteously pale, and sadly playful grew, 
A lonely child, by not one human heart 
Beloved, and loving none; nor strange, if learnt 
Her native fond affections to embrace 
Things senseless and inanimate ; she loved 
All flovv'rets that with rich embroidery fair 
Enamel the green earth, the odorous thyme, 
Wild rose, and roving eglantine, nor spared 
To mourn their fading forms with childish tears. 
Grey birch and aspen light she loved, that droop 



Fringing the crystal stream ; the sportive breeze 
That wanton'd with her brown and glossy locks, 
The sunbeam chequering the fresh bank. Ere dawn 
Wandering, and wandering still at dewy eve. 
By Glenderamakin's flower-empurpled marge, 
Derwent's blue lake, or Greta's wildering glen. 

Rare sound to her was human voice, scarce heard, 
Save of her aged nurse, or shepherd maid 
Soothing the child with simple tale or song. 
Hence, all she knew of earthly hopes and fears. 
Life's sins and sorrows ; better known the voice 
Beloved of lark from misty morning cloud 
Blithe carolling, and wild melodious notes 
Heard mingling in the summer wood, or plaint, 
By moonlight, of the lone night-warbling bird. 
Nor they of love unconscious, all around 
Fearless, familiar they their descants sweet 
Tuned emulous. Her knew all living shapes 
That tenant wood or rock, dun roe or deer, 
Sunning his dappled side at noontide crouch'd, 
Courting her fond caress, n6r fled her gaze 
The brooding dove, but raurmur'd sounds of joy. 

One summer noon, the silvery birchen shade 
Pendent above from dripping crag her brow 
Veil'd from the fiery sunbeam, gems of spray 
Gleam'd cool around with watery rainbow-light, 
From a pure streamlet down its rocky bed 
Dashing sweet music ; she on mossy couch 
Sate listening the blithe thrush, whose airy notes 
In amorous contention Echo caught 
Responsive. Sudden droop'd its flagging wing 
The timorous bird of song, and fluttering sought 
Soft refuge in the maiden's snowy breast. 
She o'er the nestling prisoner folding light 
Her careless vest, stood gazing, where, awhile 
Dark in the sun-cloud's white, came fiercely down 
A swooping falcon : at her sight it check'd ; 
Its keen eye bright with joy, th' admiring bird 
Fearfully beauteous floated in the air, 
Its silver wings, and glossy plumage grey, 
Glanced in the sun-light. Up the maiden gazed, 
Smiling a pale and terrified delight, 
And seem'd for that loved warbler in her breast 
Beseeching mercy. 'Mid the groen-wood sank 
Th' obedient bird ; she, joyous at his flight, 
Her bosom half reveal'd, with gentle hand 
Caressing smoothed her captive's ruffled plumes. 
Anon around a frighted thankful look 
Glancing, what seem'd a human shape she saw. 
Or more than human; stately on his arm 
The falcon sate, and proudly flapp'd his wings. 
She turn'd to fly, j'et fled not, turn'd to gaze. 
Yet dared not raise her downcast eye; she felt 
Her warm cheek, why she knew not, blush, her hand 
Unconscious closer drew her bosom's fold. 
With accent mild the Stranger brief delay 
Entreated ; she, albeit his gentle words 
Fell indistinct on her alarmed ear, 
Listening delay'd, and slill at fall of eve 
Delay'd, e'en then with dim reverted eye, 
Slow lingering on her winding homeward path. 

284 



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275 



No more in pomp of war, or vaulting steed, 
Joyeth the Son of Vortigern, nor feasts 
With jocund harpings, and rich-jewell'd dames, 
Outshining in their pride the starry heavens. 

As fair the spring-flower's bloom, as graceful droops 
The wild ash-spray, as sweet the mountain bee 
Murmurs, melodious breathes the twilight grove, 
Unheard of her, unheeded, who erewhile 
Visited, constant as the morning dew. 
Those playmates and sweet sisters of her soul. 
In one sole image sees the enamour'd maid 
Concentrated all qualities of love. 
All beauty, grace, and majesty. The step 
Of tall stag prancing stately down the glen, 
The keen bright fierceness of the eagle's glance. 
And airy gentleness of timorous roe, 
And, more than all, a voice more soothing soft 
Than wild bird's carol, or the murmuring brook, 
With eloquence endued and melting words 
So wondrous ; though unheard since eve, the sounds 
Come mingling with her midnight sleep, and make 
The damask of her slumbering cheek grow warm. 

And she is now beneath the moonlight rock, 
Chiding the rippling waters that efface 
That image on its azure breast distinct. 
Garb, form, and feature, Vortimer ; though mute. 
As prodigal of fondness, his bright face 
Looks up to her with glance of tenderer love. 
Than wild-dove to its mate at earliest spring. 

Oft hath that moonlight wax'd and waned, since last 
He parted, all of him that could depart; 
Save that no distance could remove the words. 
The look, the touch, that lives within her still, 
The promise of return sworn on her lips. 

And hark it comes, his steed along the glen ; 
She o'er the lucid mirror stooping, braids 
Hasty her dark-brown tresses, bashful smiles 
Of virgin vanity flit o'er her cheek. 
Tinging its settled paleness. Now 't is near. 
But ne'er did Vortimer with iron hoof 
Bruise the green flowery sward that Lilian loves. 
A gentle frown of winning fond reproach 
Arch'd her dark eyelash, as her head she turn'd. 
Ah! not on Vortimer. Her father stood 
Before her, stern and dark, his trembling child 
Cheer'd nor fond word, nor greeting kiss ; his arm 
Clasp'd round her, on his steed again he sprung. 

And on through moon-light and through shade he 
spurr'd, 
Gleam'd like a meteor's track his flinty road, 
Like some rude hunter with a snow-white fawn. 
His midnight prey. Anon, the mountain path 
'Gan upward wind, the fiery courser paused 
Breathless, and faintly raising her thin form ; 
" Oh, whither bear ye me ? " with panting voice, 
Murmur'd. Caswallon spake unmoved, "to death." 

" Death, father, death is comfortless and cold ! 
Ay me! when maiden dies, the smiling morn, 
2K 



The wild birds singing on the twinkling spray, 
Wake her no more ; the summer wind breathes soft, 
Waving the fresh grass o'er her narrow bed, 
Gladdening to all but her. Senseless and cold 
She lies; while all she loved, unheard, unseen, 
Mourn round her." There broke ofll" her faltering voice. 
Dimly, with farewell glance, she roved around, 
Never before so beautiful the lake, 
Like a new sky, distinct with stars, the groves. 
Green banks and shadowy dells, her haunts of bliss. 
Smiled, ne'er before so lovely, their last smile ; 
The fountains seem'd to wail, the twilight mists. 
On the wet leaves were weeping all for her. 
Had not her own tears blinded her, there too 
She surely had beheld a youthful form, 
Wandering the solitary glen. But loud 
The courser neigh'd, down bursting, wood and rock 
Fly backward, the wide plain its weary length 
Vainly outspreads; and now 'tis midnight deep. 
Ends at a narrow glen their fleet career. 
That narrow glen was paled with rude black rocks. 
There slowly roll'd a brook its glassy depth ; 
Now in the moon-beams white, now dark in gloom. 

She lived, she breathed, she felt to her denied 
That sole sad happiness the wretched know. 
Even from excess of feeling, not to feel. 
Behold her gentle, delicate, and frail. 
Where all around, through rifted rock and wood, 
Grim features glare, huge helmed forms obscure 
People the living gloom, with dreary light 
Glimmering, as of the moon from iron arms 
Coldly reflected, lovely stands she there. 
Like a blest Angel 'mid th accurst of Hell. 
A voice is heard. — " Lo, mighty Monarch, here 
The stream of sacrifice ; to man alone 
Fits the proud privilege of bloody death 
By shaft or mortal steel ; to Hela's realm, 
Unblooded, woundless, must the maid descend ; 
So in the bright Valhalla shall she crown 
For Woden and his Peers the cup of bliss." 
Her white arms round her father's rugged neck 
Winding with desperate fondness, she 'gan pour. 
As to some dear, familiar, long-loved heart. 
Most eloquent her inarticulate prayers. 
Is the dew gleaming on his cheek ? or weeps 
The savage and the stern, yet still her sire ? 
But some rude arm of one, whose dreadful face 
She dared not gaze on, seized her. Gloomy stood. 
Folding his wolf-skui mantle to conceal 
The shuddering of his huge and mailed form, 
Caswallon. Then again the voice came forth, 
" Fast wanes the night, the Gods brook no delay, 
"Monarch of Britain, speed." He, at that name 
Shaking all human from his soul, flimg back 
The foldings of his robe, and stood elate. 
As haughty of some glorious deed, nor knew 
Barbarian blind as proud, who feels no more 
The mercies and affections of his kind, 
Casts off the image of God, a man of ill. 
With all his nature's earth, without its heaven. 

A sound is in the silent night abroad, 
A sound of broken waters ; rings of light 

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Float o'er the dark stream, widening to the shore.* 

And lo, her re-appearing form, as soft 

As fountain Nymph by weary hunter seen, 

In the lone twilight glen ; the moonlight gleam 

Falls tenderly on her beseeching face. 

Like the halo of expiring Saint, she seems 

Lingering to lie upon the water top. 

As to enjoy once more that light beloved ; 

And tremulously moved her soundless lips 

As syllabling the name of Vortimer; 

Then deep she sank, and quiet the cold stream, 

Unconscious of ils guilt, went eddying on, 

And look'd up lovely to the gazing moon. 

What deepest thoughts, young Vortimer, have place 
Within thy secret breast ? thou slowly ridest 
By Eamont's alder brink, thy silver arms 
Through the brown copse with moonshine glittering 

dim, 
Is't that late fight by Thanet, when the fire 
From thine and Horsa's steel, frequent and red. 
Burnt the pale sea-spray? or thy stately charge, 
With show of British war, to curb and check 
The threatening Caledonian ? or what bathes 
Youth's cheek in bitterest and most gall-like tears; 
Thy father's shame, the curse that, unredeem'd 
By thy young valour, his once kingly name 
Brands with the deep-sear'd characters of hate ? 

Or is 't that gentle Maid by Derwent lake, 
Her flower-wreath'd tresses and her pale sweet smile ? 
How pleasant, after war and journeying fleet 
To Britain's Northern realm, from Kent's white cliffs. 
Once more to see her early gliding foot 
Skimming the morning dews, to hear her voice, 
As artless, as melodious, melt on air. 
Among the wood-birds' matins to surprise 
Thine own dear name upon her bashful lips! 

What floateth down the stream a deep dead white 
Amid the glittering moonshine, where the stream 
Runs black beneath the thicket boughs, still white, 
Still slowly drifting, like a dying swan. 
In snowy beauty, on its watery bier ? 
Oh, were but Lilian here ! perchance it?i neck 
May struggle up, to the still waves to chaunt 
Its own soft requiem, the most gentle breath, 
Most fancifully, delicately sweet, 
That ever soothes the midnight's dewy calm. 

Near, and more near, it takes a human shape : 
Some luckless maiden ; haply her loved youth 
Awaits her at the well-known place, upbraids 



* Homo autein quem Bors immolandum oblulerat, in fontem 
qui ad locum sacrificiorum scatnriebat vivos immergebatur: 
qui si facile efflaret animam, faustum renunciabant sacerdotes 
votum : moxque iniie ereptum in vicinum nemus, quod sacrum 
credebant, suspendentes, inter Deos translatum atfirmabant. 
duo factum erat, ut beatum se crederet, quieo immolationee 
vivis excederet. Accidit nonnunquam reees ipsos simili sorte 
delectos victimari. Quod quia fausti simum regno lihamon 
EEstimabatur, totius populi multiludo cum summa congratu- 
lalione tarn insiunes victimas prosequebantur. Enimvero sic 
defunctos non omnino mnri, sed tarn illos quam se ipsos im- 
mortales esse. — OLAUS MAGNUS, Book 3, cap. 6. 



Her broken faith, as fond as Vortimer, 
As full of love. 'Tis closer now; he leaps 
From his high steed, he draws it to the shore. 
Scarce time for fancy or for lear, the moon 
Quench'd her broad light behind a rushing cloud, 
And utter darkness settled round. He sate 
In solitude, with that cold lifeless thing ; 
He dared not leave it, for a hideous thought 
Was in his brain. — " Why is it like to thee, 
My Lilian ! be it any one but thou — 
Hopelessly cold, irrevocably cold : 
It cannot be, and yet 't was like : her height. 
Her slender waist like Lilian's, and her hair 
As dainty soft, and trick'd with flowers; 'tis she, 
And I will kiss her, pardon if I err. 
If stranger lips round, smooth like thine ; but oh ! 
So coldly passive; when we parted, thine 
Thwarted me with a struggling bashfulness. 
And, won at length, with meek surrender swell'd. 
Wild and delirious fancy ! many a maid 
Hath full round lips, to trick the hair with flowers 
'Tis common vanity. If dead, even dead, 
So chilly senseless Lilian could not be 
To Vortimer's embrace. Oh, but for light. 
Though dim and scanty as a glow-worm's fire, 
To make me surely, hopelessly undone ! 
Aught but this racking ignorance. Dawn forth, 
Thou tortoise-footed sluggard, Morn! one beam. 
Thou pitiless cold Moon !" — Morn dawn'd not yet, 
And pale and thick remain'd the moonless sky. 
Darkness around, the dead within his arms. 
He sate, even like a poison'd man, that waits, 
Yet haunted by a miserable hope. 
The palpable cold sickness in his veins. 
And yearns to live or die, scarce cares he which, 
So one were certain. But when slow the dawn 
Unveil'd its filmy light, he turn'd away 
From that which might be Lilian's fiice, and pray'd 
Even for the hateful, dun, uncertain gloom. 
As now by habit the slow-creeping grief. 
Winding like ivy round and round his heart. 
Were rapture, and not lightly to be lost. 
It seem'd unconsciously his hand held up, 
Unconsciously declined his heavy eye. 
Where slowly brighten'd on that lifeless face 
The intrusive beauty ; one tress lay across, 
O'erspreading yet a thin and shadowy doubt; 
Move it he dare not, but the officious wind 
At length dispersed it. As the thought, the fear 
Were new, were sudden, like the lightning flash 
That sears the infant in its mother's arms. 
Smote on him the dire certainty. He clasp'd 
Her damp dead cheek to his. — " Thus, meet we thus, 
Lilian, my Lilian, silent, strange, and cold? 
I do not bid thee fondly gaze, nor ask 
Long garrulous welcoming, — but speak, but move ! 
Lilian ; ne'er thought I, I should live to loathe 
Thy gentle presence. — Most ungrateful girl. 
And I for thee forsook my warrior trust. 
Was truant to my country's cause for thee. 
By the green Tees my murmuring camp upbraids 
My soft unwarlike absence — ay, upbraid ! 
Henceforth finds Fortune no where in this soul 

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277 



To fasten misery on ; I laugh at Fate, 

For I am past its wavering malice now. 

Thinks she with hollow gauds of fame, and clang 

Of cymbal praise, to lure me forth, a bland 

And courteous parasite in her fond train ? 

IVo ; hang thou there, my helm, my broad-barr'd shield 

Rust on yon bank; my sword, one duty more. 

To shape the smooth turf for my Lilian's grave ; 

Thy bridal bed, sweet INIaid, it should have been, 

Where thou and Vortimer had met. Thy grave 

Shall be my field of fame, my wreath of pride 

The flowers the courteous spring shall lavish there ; 

And I '11 have glory in my depth of woe — 

A wild and strange delight in my despair : 

Not yet, the cold earth must not part us yet. 

One glimmer more from thine eye's dark-fringed blue, 

One throb, one tremor, though it be the last 

In thy soft limbs — dead, sightless, icy dead !" — 

O'er his lost Love, thus that sad Prince, undream'd 
The hell-born secret of her fate, arraign'd 
Blind Chance for keen-eyed Man's earth-sullying sins. 

But southward far the savage fleet bore on. 
On Flamborough-head the morning sun look'd dusk 
Through their dim sails; where Scarborough's naked 

foot 
Spurns back, and saith, " no further," to the waves, 
From cleft and cave the sullen sea-birds sprang. 
Wheeling in air with dizzy flight, and shriek'd 
Their dreary fears abroad. The Shepherd, wont 
O'er level Lindesay view the watery plain. 
Blue trembling to the soft horizon's line. 
Sees, like a baleful portent from the heavens. 
That sable train of gloom warp slowly past. 
Th' Icenian coast (that sceptred woman's realm, 
Bonduca, who from her fair body slaked 
The stain of Roman lust in Roman blood,) 
Looks haggard, with distracted faces wan. 
Hoar age, fair youth, the woman and the child. 
From beech or steep clifl^ gazing now to Heaven, 
Now on that ocean army's watery march. 

Oh Nelson ! if the unborn soul distinct 
Amid the loose infinity of space. 
Be visited by apparitions dim 
Of this earth's fleeting Present, and inhale 
Faint foretaste of its mortal passions, thon. 
When, with usurping prow, that foreign fleet 
Daunted thy Britain, thou didst surely yearn 
To unordain'd maturity to force 
Thy unripe being, to foreseize from Fate 
Thy slow existence. Oh, the days must dawn, 
When Saxon and when Briton, melted off 
All feud, all hate, all discord, of their strength 
And valour blent th' abstract and essence rich. 
One sword, one name, one glory, and one God, 
From their bright armoury of Captains, thee 
Their chosen thunderbolt shall usher forth, 
From the leagued Nations' frantic grasp to wrest 
Britain's allotted sceptre of the sea. 

A brighter and more British battlement. 
Than tender forms of woman, the pale dread 



Of infants and decrepit eld, from Thames 
To Thanet crown the pale-brow'd cliffs of Kent 
As when from Aulis that immortal fleet 
Swept the ^Egean, all the hollow beach. 
And every Phrygian promontory glow'd 
With brazen battle, here the Morning's Son, 
Swarth Memnon, here the invulnerable strength 
Of Cycnus, here the beardless Troilus, 
Unwounded by soft Cresseide's arrowy eyes ; 
Here Hector, seeking through the watery route 
The tall Thessalian prow, with fatal thirst 
Furious even then, the silver-fooled Queen 
To orphan of her heaven-soul'd boy. So broad, 
So brave in splendour tower'd the rampart bold 
Of British Warriors on that pallid shore. 

On Thanet are the Sea King Brethren met. 
Their greeting in that fiercely sportive strain 
That, elevate with imminent success, 
Scoffs at past ill. — " On Thanet's marge well met, 
Erie Horsa ; now meseems our spacious realm 
Is somewhat waste and shrunken, since we last 
View'd its fair confines : for such noble guests 
And numerous as attend our royal march, 
Our kingdom's harbours show too close, our land 
Narrow and brief for such free spirits' range. 
Ill husbandry ! our fertile province wide 
To barter for this spare and meagre i.sle. 
Horsa, for anchorage and breathing space 
Our weary mariners must e'en go sue 
Their gentle Briton neighbours; haply they, 
Knowing our native courtesy, may cede 
From their abundance some fair leagues of earth." 

"Ingrate and blind (cried Horsa,) they forswear 
Our mild dominion; to their King's behest 
Rebellious, they proclaim the British earth 
The undivided, indivisible right 
Of their old British sires, nor may't descend 
Sever'd and mutilate to their British sons. 
They shook not off the Roman's gentle sway, 
To slave it to Barbarians. Specious terms, 
And with such cogent arguments enforced, 
We were fain shroud us in this narrow isle 
From such hot disputants; a desperate spirit 
Was that old Caesar, who first planted here 
The tree of conquest." — " Holds the King his faith ?" 
" Oh, thy fair daughter hath a soft-link'd chain 
For the old royal Lion ; he obeys. 
Like a slim greyhound in a silken leash. 
Her eye-won empire. But there walks abroad 
A youngling of the brood ; no blood but mine 
Might flesh the ravin of his dainty jaws. 
Tliis \'ortimer, this bright-eyed, beardless boy. 
Ay, front to front I met him, but their bands 
Rent us asunder, and my crest-lopp'd helm, 
My scatter'd blood, pass'd unavenged. Now earth 
Swallow me in my wrath, heaven's bolt sear up 
My constant heart, if I forget thee. Boy, 
Nor shear the gay sprouts of thy budding fame !" 
"A child their mightiest!" — "Scornful Ilengist, no; 
A manlier spirit ridelh the fierce storm. 
One in whom bravery and counsel vie 
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For excellence : wild battle wears the shape 
His will ordains; and if the rebel swerve, 
He forceth it with his strong sword to obey 
His high behest, and take the fate he gives." 
"His name— his name!"— "The Chieftain of the Vales, 
So sounds his title." — Then a bitter groan, 
'Twere hard to tell from what bad passion, hate 
Or dread, or hideous hope, from Hengist's breast 
Burst forth ; with his mail'd hand he clasp'd his head, 
As though to mould the discord of his thoughts 
To one strong mass : then, as the birth were ripe, 
A light and laughing carelessness relax'd 
Those knitted furrows, seem'd his eager soul 
Clasp'd the dim future with a wanton joy. 

But on the mainland, in sad council, meet 
The Baronage of Britain, timorous hearts 
In hollow unsubstantial valour trick'd. 
While those who dare show fear, fear undisguised. 
Their first fierce rush of courage pass'd, like flame 
The mountain heath devouring, with fleet blaze, 
But transitory ; they of generous thoughts. 
Of appetites whose sole rich draught is fame, 
Wanting the steadfast fuel, the strong wind 
Wanting of love devotional, heart-deep 
To their own native land, that passion proud 
That is all passions, that hath breath to fan 
To a broad light beyond the noon-day Sun 
The waning embers of faint zeal ; they hence 
Powerful, but now with gallant charge to sweep 
From Kent's fair Valleys Horsa's Saxon train. 
Downcast in mien and mind, with prospect sad 
Now count that countless navy's gathering sails. 

Not now the rapture and the restlessness, 
The riding and the racing, burst and shock, 
And sudden triumph, or as sudden death ; 
Now long, long wasting of the limbs and life. 
The circumspect cold strife, drear march, damp watch, 
Forepining day, and vigilant sleepless night, 
Eternal and interminable war. 
Before them spreads its comfortless wide tract. 
Gone all soft joys, all courtly luxuries gone: 
The languor of the bath, the harp, the song 
By twilight in the lady's sleepless porch, 
The loitering in the sunny colonnade, 
The circus, and the theatre, the feast 
Usurping the mild midnight's solemn hours ; 
From holier hearts, the chapel and the prayer, 
The matins, and melodious vesper hymn, 
The bridal with its gay and jocund rout. 
The baptism with its revel, gone — all gone. 
The burial on cold battle field, unhymn'd, 
Unmourn'd, untomb'd ; nor taper, tear, nor rite : 
Gentle commercing between God and man 
Broke off, save hasty prayer ere battle morn. 
Cold orison upon the midnight watch. 

Sole pillar of the quaking temple, firm, 
Inflexible, on the foundation deep 
Of his broad spirit, Samor bears the weight 
Of imminent danger, and his magic voice 
With shame, with praise, with soothing, and with scorn, 



Scatters the languid mist, that wreathes their souls, 
And from their blanch'd cheeks drives the white 
dismay. 

What ho ! a trumpet from the Thanet shore, 
Truce for the Saxon's embassage ; his hand 
Outholding the white wand of peace, comes on 
Old Cerdic, and before the assemblage proud 
Speaks frank and bold that grey Plenipotent. 

" Britons, most strange 'twill sound, while our vast 
fleet 
Affronts your pale cliflTs with fierce show of war. 
Yet would we peace with Britain. Deem not this. 
In the blown arrogance of brief success. 
The hard-wrung cowering of fiiint fear; look round 
Your own brief camp, then gaze abroad, our sails 
Outnumber your thin helms, and that pale fear 
Is not familiar with our German souls. 
This know ye further, what we Saxons dare. 
That dare we nobly, openly. Far south 
A rich and wanton land its champaign green 
Spreads to the sun, there all the basking hills 
Glow with the red wine, there the fresh air floats 
So fragrant, that 'tis pleasure but to breathe, 
Aye one blue summer in the cloudless skies ; 
And our old Bards have legends, how of yore 
From that soft land bright eagles, fledged with gold, 
Danube or Rhine o'erflew, their Caesars fired 
Our holy groves with insolent flames, and girt 
Our fierce free foresters with slavish chains, 
That scarce bold Herman rent their massive links. 
Not to despoil a mild and gentle isle. 
For full fierce vengeance on Imperial Rome 
Pours forth embattled Germany. Then hear, 
Brave islanders ! our Saxon terms of peace ; 
For this fair province, ours by royal boon 
Of your King Vortigern give plenteous gold ; 
And with it take the gift, that deepest wrings 
Our German souls to part with, our revenge. 
With most unwonted patience will we bear 
Erie Horsa's camp with fierce assault o'erborne. 
And British wolves full-gorged with Saxon gore. 
Then not as foes, but friends, we disembark 
Our sea-worn crews, ourselves, the Chiefs of war. 
In solemn festival to your high Lords, 
Pledge on the compact our unwavering faith. 
But if ye still with lavish thirst pursue 
War's crimson goblets, freely let them flow. 
If the fierce pastime of the fire and sword 
Be jocund to ye, ho, let slip the game. 
Your city walls are not so airy high. 
But our fleet flames may climb their dizzy towers. 
And revel on their pinnacles of pride ; 
Your breastplates not so adamantine proof, 
But our keen falchions to your hearts may find 
A direful passage. And not we alone, 
Caswallon, at our call, o'er the wide North 
Wakes the hoarse music of his rushing cars. 
Then choose your bride, oh Britons, lo, each courts 
Your arms with rival beauties, Peace and War." 

Thus half in courtesy, defiant half, 
To wait their answer he withdrew. Ere died 

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279 



His voice, ere from a single lip assent 
Had parted, Samor rose, and cried aloud — 

"Britons! oh Britons! hinds fear fawning wolves, 
The peasant flies the snake that smoothly coils 
Round his numb foot its gay enamell'd rings; 
I dread a peaceful Saxon. 'Tis too rare. 
Prodigious, and unnatural, like a star 
Seen in the noon-day. Was 't for this, for this 
Round Vortigern's tame soul that proud-ey'd Queen 
Wound her voluptuous trammels? did the meek, 
The hermit Constans, bleed for this ? Oh, Peace 
Is like the rain from heaven, the clouds must burst 
Ere earth smile lovely with its lucid dews. 
Peace must be won by war, swords, swords alone 
Work the strong treaty. Shall our slaves, that sold 
Their blood, their lives unto us for base hire, 
On our fair provinces set now their price ? 
Nor feast, nor metal give we, but cold steel ! 
Give gold ! as wisely might the miser lead 
The robber to his treasury, and then cry, 
"Go hence, and plunder;" 'twere to tempt, to bribe 
The undream'd perjury, and spread a lure, 
To bring the parted spoiler swiftly back. 
Outnumber us! and are we sunk so low 
To count our valour by our helmet crests? — 
Oh, every soul that loves his native land. 
It is a legion ; where the fire shall sear 
The hydra heads of liberty ? Our earth 
Shall burst to bearing of as boon a crop 
Of sworded soldiers, as of bladed grass, 
And all our hills branch out in groves of steel. 
So thought our fathers, so they bravely strove 
For the bleak freedom of their steamy moors. 
Their black oak's fruitage coarse, and rites uncouth 
Of Druid, by the beal-fire's lurid flame. 
But we, less drossy beings, filter'd off 
Our natures rude and gross, create anew 
Souls of fine wants and delicate desires. 
Rich in the fair civilities of life. 
Endued with sensitiveness keen and clear 
Of earth's best pleasures, shall we tamely yield 
Our beauteous Britain, our ov^n pleasant isle, 
To dreary-soul'd Barbarians ? 'T is not now 
Merely to 'scape the heaven-branded name of slaves, 
For license to breathe where we choose, and wield 
At our own wayward will unfetter'd limbs. 
Oh, if we fail, free Christians must sink down 
To Heathen slaves, our gilded palace roofs 
Shout the loose riot of new Lords, our wives 
Be like base plunder, vilely bought and sold ; 
Worse shame ! worse sin ! the murkj' Heathen groves 
O'er our fallen Churches their pale gloom advance ; 
Our holy air go hot and reeking up 
With impious incense to blood beveraged Gods ! 
The deep damnation of a Pagan creed 
Rot in our children's souls ! Then be our peace 
Not hasty, as of timorous souls that snatch 
At every feeble reed, but stoop we to it 
As with a conqueror's pride, with steel-gloved hand 
Seal our stern treaty. So if they depart. 
And with their spread sails hunt their mad emprize ; 
But while one prow dash menace on our shore, 
24 



Our earth be patient of one armed hoof. 
Tame treaty, temporizing truce, avaunt! 
The foreign banner that usurps our winds. 
Be it a foe, strange steel that doth divert 
One ray of sunlight from our shores, be that 
The scope and centre of all British swords. 
So build we up our peace on the strong rock 
Of brave defiance, cement it with scorn. 
Set bright-arm'd Valour in its jealous porch, 
Bold warden; from our own intrinsic strength. 
Not from the mercy of our foes, be free." — 

Oh the soul's fire, of that swift element 
Th' intensest. broadest spreads and nimblest mounts. 
With flaky fierce contagion ; it hath caught 
In that Baronial conclave, it hath blazed. 
But then rose Elidure, with bashful mien, 
Into himself half shrinking; from his lips 
The dewy words dropt, delicate and round. 
And crept into the chambers of the soul, 
Like the bee's liquid honey: — "And thou too, 
Enamour'd of this gaudy murderer, War! 
Samor, in hunger's meagre hour who scorns 
A fair-skinn'd fruit, because its inward pulp 
May be or black or hollow ? this bland Peace 
May be a rich-robed evil ; war, stem war. 
Wears manifest its hideousness, and bares 
Deformities the Sun shrinks to behold. 
Because 't is in the wanton roll of chance 
That he may die, who desperately leaps 
Into the pit, with mad untimely arms 
To clasp annihilation? Were no path 
But through the grim and haunted wilds of strife. 
To the mild shrine of peace, maids would not wear 
Their bridal chaplets with more joy, than I 
Th' oppressive morion : then th' old vaunt were wise. 
To live in freedom, or for freedom die. 
Then would I too dissemble, with vain boast 
Our island's weakness ; wear an iron front. 
Though all within were silken, soft, and smooth. 
For what are we, slight sunshine birds, thin plumed 
For dalliance with the mild, luxurious airs ! 
To grapple with these vultures, whose broad vans. 
Strung with their icy tempests, but with wind 
Of their forth rushing down would swoop us ? Then, 
Then, Samor, eminent in strength and power. 
It were most proud for thee alone to break 
The hot assault, with single arm t' arrest 
The driving ruin — ruin, ah! too sure. 
Oh, 't were most proud ; to us sad comfort ; sunk. 
Amerced of all our fair, smooth sliding hours. 
Our rich abodes the wandering war-flame's feast. 
Samor, our fathers fear'd not death ; cast off 
Most careless their coarse lives; with nought to lose. 
They fear'd no loss; our breathing is too rich. 
Too precious this our sensitive warm mould, 
Its joyances, aflections, hopes, desires, 
For such light venture. Oh, then, be we not 
Most wretched from the fear of wretchedness! 
If war must be, in God's name let war be: 
But, oh, with clinging hand, with lingering love. 
Clasp we our mistress. Peace. Gold ! what is gold ? 
My fiiir and wealthy palace set to sale, 
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Cast me a beggar to the elements' scorn ; 

But leave me peace, oh, leave my country peace, 

And I will call it mercy, bounty, love!" — 

So spake he, w'ith vain show of public zeal 
Blazoning his weak intent ; and so prevail'd 
His loose and languid eloquence. Each rent 
The golden frontlet from his helm, cast (fown 
His breastplate's golden scales, in contest free 
Prodigal rivals at rich price to buy 
That baleful merchandize, their country's shame. 

Oh, where the royal Brethren now ? the pride 
Serene of Emrys ? where thy Dragon crest, 
Prince Uther? for thy voice, young Vortimer? 
Seal, Samor, thy prophetic lips; in vain 
The trumpet of thy warning shouts abroad. 
Will the winds hear thee ? will the rocks obey ? 
Or hearts than wind more light, than rocks more cold ? 

Grey Cerdic hath their faint award ; they part 
Jocund, and light of hope ; but Samor grasp'd 
The hand of Elidure — " My childhood's friend,' 
I sue thee by all joys we two have shared ; 
Our interchange of souls, communion free 
Of every thought and motion of our hearts. 
Our infant pastimes, and our graver joys. 
Go not thou to this I'east." — " Doth Samor go?" 
" Britain must have no danger, gentle friend, 
That Samor shares not; thou art noted well 
To hate the riotous and brawling feast. 
Wish thy fond bride, thy Evelene, await 
Silent the knowledge whether thou or I 
Have err'd in this day's council." — " No, best friend, 
Samor must have no danger Elidure 
Shares not. Oh, why this cold and gloomy dread ? 
In the deep centre of our isle be held 
This dreaded banquet. Samor, ne'er thought I, 
While my mild blood ran constant, thine would flag. 
And curdle with the pallid fi:ost of fear." 

'Tis famed, that then, albeit amid the rush 
Of clamorous joy unmark'd in drearier days, 
Remember'd signs on earth, and signs in heaven, 
With loud and solemn interdict arraign'd 
That hasty treaty ; maniacs kindled up 
With horrible intelligence the pits 
Of their deep hollow eyes, and meaning strange 
Gave order to their wandering utterance : stream'd 
Amid the dusky woods broad sheeted flames ; 
The blue fires on the fen at noon-day danced 
Their wavering morrice, and the bold-eyed wolves 
Howl'd on the sun. Life ominous and uncouth 
Seized upon ancient and forgotten things ; 
The Cromlechs rock'd, the Druid circles wept 
Cold ruddy dews ; as of that neighbouring feast 
Conscious, the tall Stone Henge did shrilly shriek 
As with a whirlwind, though no cloud was moved 
In the still skies. A wailing, as of harps. 
Sad with no mortal sorrow, sail'd abroad 
Through the black oaks of Mona. Old deep graves 
Were restless, and arm'd bones of buried men 
Lay clattering in tlieir stony cells. 'T was faith, 
White women upon sable steeds were seen 



In fleet career 'neath the rank air; the earth 

Gave up no echo to their noiseless feet. 

And on them look'd the moon with leprous light 

Prodigious ; hnply like those slender shapes 

In the ice desert by Caswallon seen. 

From Mona to the snowy Dover cliflls. 

From Skiddaw to St. Michael's vision'd mount, 

Unknown from heaven or earth, or nether pit, 

Unknown or from the living or the dead. 

From being of this world, or nature higher, 

Pass'd one long shriek, whereat old Merlin leap'd 

From his hoar haunt by Snowdon, and in dusk 

And dreary descant mutter'd all abroad 

What the thin air grew cold and dim to hear. 

'T is said, rude portents in the church of God, 
With insolent noises, brake the holy calm. 
The grey owl hooted at the noontide chaunt. 
The young owl clamour'd at the matin song, 
The pies and ravens, from the steeple top, 
To the priest's Benedicite moan'd back 
A sullen hoarse Amen, and obscene bats 
Around the altar candlesticks did flap 
Their leathern wings. Yea, from his stricken hand 
The white-stoled Bishop to the earth let fall 
The consecrated chalice ; the holy wine 
(Ineffable I) flowed on the pavement stone. 



BOOK V. 



Swan of the Ocean, on thy throne of waves 
Exultant dost thou sit, thy mantling plumes 
Ruffled with joy, thy pride of neck elate. 
To hail fair peace, like Angel visitant, 
Descending, amid joy of earth and heaven, 
To bless thy fair abode. The laughing skies 
Look bright, oh, Britain ! on thy hour of bliss. 
In sunshine fair the blithe and bounteous May 
O'er hill and vale goes dancing ; blooming flowers 
Under her wanton feet their dewy bells 
Shake joyous ; clouds of fragrance round her float. 
City to city cries, and town to town 
Wafting glad tidings : wide their flower-hung gates 
Throw back the churches, resonant with pomp 
Of priests and people, to the Lord their prayers 
Pouring, the richest incense of pure hearts. 
With garland and with song the maids go forth, 
And mingle with the iron ranks of war 
Thefir forms of melting softness ; gentle gales 
Blow music o'er the festal land, from harp 
And merry rebeck, till the floating air 
Seem harmony ; still all fierce sounds of war ; 
No breath within the clarion's brazen throat; 
Soft slumber in the war-steed's drooping mane. 

Not in the palace proud, or gorgeous hall. 
The banqueting of Peace ; on Ambri plain 
Glitter the white pavilions to the sun. 
Their snowy pomp unfolding; there the land 
Pours its rejoicing multitudes to gaze, 
Briton and Saxon, in majestic league, 

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Mingling their streaming banners' blazon'd waves. 
Blithe as a virgin bridal, rich and proud 
As gorgeous triumph for fair kingdom won, 
Flows forth the festal train ; v^'ith arms elate 
The mothers bear their infants to behold 
That Hengist, whose harsh name erewhile theircheeks 
Blanch'd to cold paleness; they their little hands 
Clap, smiling, half delighted, half in dread. 
Upon that hated head, from virgin hands. 
Rain showers of bloom ; beneath those hated feet 
Is strewn a llowery pavement; harp and voice 
Hymn blessings on the Saxon, late denounced 
Th' implacable, inexorable foe. 

Lordly they pass'd and lofty ; other land 
Save Britain, of such mighty despots proud, 
Had made a boast of slavery ; giant men 
In soul as body. Not the Goth more dread, 
Tall Alaric, who through imperial Rome 
March'd conqueror, nor that later Orient chief, 
Turban'd Mohammed, who o'er fall'n Byzance 
His moony ensign planted : they, unarm'd, 
Yet terrible, went haughty on, of power 
A world to vanquish, not one narrow isle. 

The hollow vault of heaven is rent with shouts. 
Wild din and hurry of tumultuous joy 
Waves the wide throng, for lo, in perfect strength, 
Consummate height of manhood, but the glow. 
The purple grace of youth, th' ambrosial hue 
Of life's fresh morning, on his glossy hair, 
His smooth and flushing features, Samor comes. 
His name is on the lisping infant's lips, 
Floats on the maiden's song ; him warrior men 
Hail with proud crest elate ; him present, deem 
Peace timorous mercy on the invading foe. 
Around the Kings of Britain, some her shame, 
Downy and silken with luxurious ease. 
Others more hardy, in whose valiant looks 
Were freedom and command : of princely stem 
Alone were absent the forsaken King 
And his sad Son, and those twin royal youths, 
Emrys and Uther ; nor the Mountain Lord, 
With that young eaglet of his race, deign share 
The gaudy luxuries of peace; save these. 
All Britain's valiance, princedom, and renown 
March'd jubilant, with symphony and song. 

Noon ; from his high empyreal throne the Sun 
Floods with broad light the living plain ; more rich 
Ne'er blazed his summer couch, when sea and sky, 
In royal pomp of cloudy purple and gold. 
Curtain his western chambers, breathing men 
Gorgeous and numberless as those bright waves 
Flash, in their motion, the quick light ; aloof 
The banqueters, like Gods at nectar feast, 
Sit sumptuous and pavilion'd ; all glad tones 
From trembling string, or ravishing breath or voice. 
In clouds of harmony melt up to Heaven ; 
O'erwhelming splendour all of sight and sound, 
One rich oppression of eye, ear, and mind. 

Midnight, in darkness heavy, thick, and chill ; 
In silence rigid, deep and breathless, stands 



On the wide plain one lonely man. Wan light. 
From dim decaying firebrand in his grasp. 
Feebly, with gleam inconstant, shows his mien 
Hopeless, too haughty to despair: His eye. 
As jealous of dark foe, goes wandering round : 
Yet seems he one more fear'd than fearing ; rent 
His robes' rich splendour ; and his ponderous arm. 
With its wild weapon wearily declined, 
Bears token of rude strife — though rude, though fierce, 
By thy brow's pride, thou sad and stately Man ! 
No faint inglorious craven hast thou shrunk. 
In dread of death, or avarice base of blood. 

At that dead hour, in Cesar's city* gates 
The Briton wives and mothers sate ; at eve 
They from the plain had homeward turn'd, to rock 
Their infants' rosy sleep, or trim the couch 
For him beloved and loving; some, from joy 
Sleepless, sate watching the grey shadows fall, 
In luxury of impatience ; slumbering some. 
From weariness of pleasure, in light dreams 
Lived o'er again the morning's jocund hours. 

That hour, one horn with long and solemn blast 
Went vvailing up the heavens; less shrill, less drear, 
Blew through the fatal Roncesvalles pass. 
In after times, Roland's deep bugle, heard 
Dolorous, so poets feign, on Paris' wall. 
The air seem'd shivering where the knell pass'd on, 
As with a cold wind shudder'd the thick trees. 

But those fond women hail that brazen sound, 
Joy's harbinger, sweet signal of return : 
As the fond maid her lover's moonlight lute. 
They drink in its dire harshness, busy round 
Gazing, if aught neglected, careless aught 
Belie the welcome, or to wakening child 
Smile the glad tidings, or along the walls 
People the dim air with the forms they love. 
Oh, fond of fancy! credulous of liope ! 
Ye hear but pleasure in that horn ; but see, 
In the dim tumult of yon moving lights. 
Swift homeward hurrying. Now the slow delay 
Is but a lengthen'd rapture : steps are heard, 
And figures indistinct are in the gloom 
Advancing ; yet no festal pomp proclaim'd 
By music's merry breath, but mute and slow. 
As from dark funeral — haply wearied all 
With the long revel day. But ye 'gin trace 
Some well-known gesture, dear familiar step. 
Each boastful of her lover's speedier pace. 
Saxon the first, how wearily slow they pass ! 
Still are they Saxon, Saxon still, the last 
Saxon ; in wonder they, nor yet in fear. 
Question the dark air with their searching eyes. 
Incredulous arraign the deepening gloom, 
That with an envious melancholy shroud 
Palls the long-look'd for, late-returning. Them, 
Ah, deeper darkness covers; to their homes 
Never more to return ! Lo, all at once 
The bloody knives, borne boastful, their red light 

* Salisbury. — Sarisburga, qu. Caesaris bursal 
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Flash murtherous ; known is all ere aught is fear'd. 

And yet are there unfaded on their brows 

The garlands that ye fondly wove, the air 

Not silent of your blessings. From these walls, 

At morn, three hundred breathing valiant men 

Went proudly forth — in solitary life 

Moves o'er the plain that one majestic shape. 

Like Spirit of Vengeance o'er some ghastly land 

That scoff'd erewhile, in high portentous guilt. 

The slumbering of God's wrath now blasted lies, 

Infecting with the ashes of its wreck 

The late chastising heavens. So lone, so dark. 

But pale with human sorrows at his heart. 

The King of that Bright City in the Vales, 

Walks the waste gloom ; around hi'm the cold winds 

Speak voices from the dead, and oft he turns. 

Brandishing defiance on the air, and smites 

Some seeming Saxon with his smouldering brand. 

Now rests he in that old mysterious ring. 
The dateless and the numberless Stonehenge, 
That is, and hath been, whence or how, none knows. 
But even the Master Druid with slow dread 
Its dangerous precincts trod, though noontide bright 
Revell'd in the rich heavens, and holiest harps 
Purified the calm air: rose like the wreck 
Of some old world the shadowy temple huge. 
Shapeless magnificence! here souls profane 
Deem'd rites so potent held as made the oaks 
Stand still and motionless 'mid the wild storm. 
And with a light, nor of the stars nor moon, 
Sheeted the midnight heavens : deem'd some, more 

sage, 
Th' Invisible his cloudy presence here 
Embodied, and with wisdom heavenly and liigh 
Full feasted the tranced soul; all the dire place 
Fled, fearing more, unknowing what they fear'd. 

Amid those stony giants that uptower 
In massy darkness, or in the wind's rush 
Seem swaying on their dizzy balance, stands. 
If virtue of aught earthly may feel awe. 
Awe-struck the Christian; now his calmer soul 
Had time for grief, for memory, o'er him flows 
Deep-lulling (juiet; here the light and gay 
Had felt a motion on their lips like prayer; 
Nor marvel then that holy thoughts oppress'd 
With a full ecstasy the Christian soul. 

" Merciful ! by whose will mine arm hath paved 
With the strewn corpses of my murtherous foes 
A dismal passage, while around me Death 
Mow'd Britain with his secret scythe ! oh God, 
I thank thee, if I die, a warrior's death 
May be my brave distinction : if this life 
Be worthy thy upholding, though all lost. 
The friendships and the prides, that made its course 
Blissful and bright, I thank thee for my life : 
Thank thee, that yet on British earth shall breathe 
A Briton, resolute on that last crag, 
That knows not the rude Saxon's tread, to rise 
Erect in stately freedom, and o'er-brood 
The dim and desert beacon of revenge. 



Or deign 'st thou this low frame of dust to choose 
Thy minister of wrath, I not with prayer 
Vam and presumptuous, summon from the clouds 
Thy thunders, nor invoke prodigious Death 
To smite my foes. Hopes perishable man, 
At his wild bidding, thou the laws wilt bursf. 
Wherewith thou fetterest thy Onnipotence? 
Harden to stern endurance these frail limbs. 
With adamantine patience sheathe my soul. 
That nor pale shrinking of the coward flesh, 
Nor inward palsying swerve from its brave scope 
Th' aspiring spirit ; grant thou this sole prayer. 
And I thus lone, thus desolate, proclaim, 
Single, yet dauntless, to yon Saxon host 
Stubborn defiance, haughty to bear up 
The wreck of Britain with unstooping neck." 

Now over all the orient sky, the Morn 
Spread rosy in her youth of light, as fair. 
As bright her rising on this plain of death, 
As yesterday, when festal multitudes 
Greeted her dawn : so vain the boast of man. 
That earth, and air, and sky, their mimic hues 
Borrow from his fantastic woes and joys. 

And o'er the plain began his lonely v^'ay 
The Warrior, on his brow the unheeded wind 
Fann'd freshness, and the wandering lark unheard, 
Quiver'd her blithe song, like an airy voice. 
Bathing in light. Anon a dale beneath 
Open'd, and slow withdrew the misty veil 
That o'er her hamlets, roofs, and bowery trees 
Tinged with a liquid azure the thin air. 
Along the winding path he roves, that none. 
Save feet habituate to its maze, could thread. 
Heedless that here to Elidure's green home 
He pame, unweeting visitant. Within, 
Breathless, as though she listen'd in her sleep, 
Close to the door, as jealous lest some ear 
Earlier than her own should catch the sound 
Of Elidure's returning tread, or voice 
Anticipate the welcome of her own. 
Reclined the bride, soft Evelene. The step 
Up from the pillowing hand her flushing cheek 
Waken'd, or ere the threshold he o'erpast, 
The form yet indistinct to her quick sight, 
Murmur'd her fond upbraiding. " Truant Lord, 
Art thou too changed, thou too of midnight feast 
Enamour'd? time hath been the rosy cup. 
Thou Saxon in thy revels, had look'd pale 
To Evelene's cheek — 'T is wretched solace, yet 
'Tis solace in the drear extreme of grief. 
To find one human heart whose deeper woe 
Makes weakness of our wailing." Though alone 
Of the fray's dizzy tumult lay distinct 
Elidure's image on the Wanderer's soul. 
His image as beneath the Sa.xon steel 
Dying, he struggled back to life from joy 
His stern friend to behold with fiery brand 
Piercing his path of flight, less bitter seem'd 
His cup of woe, when from him sprang that bride. 
Nor knew him ; knew him, but not Elidure. 
Then sued for tidings, and with all her soul 

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283 



Listen'd but could not hear, mistrusting all 
While yet but fearing, but when all assured, 
Alistrusting even her fears, even then to hope 
Clinging with desperate energy of soul. 
Her Samor left in that dead night of mind, 
When madness were a comfort, all wild whirl, 
All dizzy hurry of rack'd sense were rich. 
Were rapturous to that blank and dismal void, 
When one incessant miserable thought 
Blends with the life, the being of the spirit. 

Him scared no Saxon clarion, the drear blast 
Winding of fleet pursuit ; came o'er his soul 
His own, his wedded Emeric, her babes 
Hushing, while greedily with ear and soul 
She drinks each sound the busy babbling fame 
Spread.s on the wandering winds ; the fleetest steed 
Of Elidure bestriding, still he moves 
A tardy laggard to his soul's desire. 
Sedulous each throng'd haunt of man avoids 
His jealous speed, and still from town and tower 
Came blithely forth the jubilant hymns of peace; 
Still unextinguish'd their glad brilliance, waned 
In morn's grey mists the yellow festal fires. 

Day pass'd, day sank; 'tis now the dewy eve. 
Beneath him, in the soft and silent night. 
Spread the fair Valleys, mead and flowery lawn 
With their calm verdure interspersed allay 
The forest's ponderous blackness, or retire 
Under the chequering umbrage of dim groves, 
Whose shadows almost slumber : far beyond 
Huge mountains, brightening in their secret glens, 
Their cold peaks bathe in the rich setting sun. 
Sweeps through the midst broad Severn, deep and dark 
His monarchy of waters, its full flow 
Still widening, as he scorn'd to bear the main 
Less tribute than a sea ; or inland roll'd 
Ambitious ocean, of his tide to claim 
The wealthy vassalage. High on its marge 
Shone the Bright City, in her Roman pomp. 
Of bath, and theatre, and basilic. 
Smooth swelling dome, and spiring obelisk. 
Glittering like those more soft and sunny towns 
That bask beneath the azure southern skies 
In marble majesty. Silent she stands 
In the rich quiet of the golden light ; 
The banner on her walls its cumbrous folds 
Droojjs motionless. But Samor turn'd aloof. 
Where lordly his fair dwelling's long arcade 
On its white shafts the tremulous glittering light 
Cherish'd, and starry with the river dews 
Its mantle of gay flowers, the odorous lavvn 
Down sloped, as in the limpid stream to bathe. 

No watch-dog, with glad bark and fawning joy. 
His Lord saluted : Samor mark'd it not. 
No menial caught the slack rein from his hand : 
He heeded not. No swift familiar step 
Forth started at his coming ; face of joy 
Brightened not — vacant all : yet heeds he not. 
No infcints, in their giddy, tottering speed. 
Clung round his knees. So early at their rest I 
24* 2L 



Thought the fond father. Emeric's chamber door 
Stands open ; he but paused his name to hear 
Low mingled with her murmur'd orisons : 
All hush'd as in a tomb ; perchance she sleeps, 
At his long absence heartsick. He the folds 
Gently withdrawing of his nuptial bed. 
As with the amorous violence of his lips 
To wake her to delicious fear, bends down. 
Cold, cold as marble, the forsaken bed 
Received the fervent pressure. Back he sprung, 
And strange, like one that moveth in his sleep. 
Stood with loose arms and leaden listless gaze. 
Unconscious, to the city walls, far seen 
From that high chamber, rove his eyes : behold 
Against the Sun's last light a wandering breeze 
Swells up the heavy banner; in the gleam 
The White Horse of the Saxon shakes his mane. 

Then felt he the blank silence, then perceived 
The tumult, and rude disarray that marr'd 
The face of his fair dwelling. Forth he rush'd. 
As eager that his soul at one wild draught 
Might glut itself with perfect woe, all ill 
Exhausted, laugh drain'd destiny to scorn. 
Cradle and infants' couch with frantic hand 
Harrying he explores ; the sad chill void 
Almost delights. Now on the river brink 
He watches yon huge forms that pace the walls; 
Saxon their long black lances, Saxon helms 
Nod o'er their lofty brows, terrific gloom. _ 

Lo ! at his feet, beneath a primrose bed. 
Half veil'd, and branching alder that o'er-droop'd 
Its dark green canopy, a slumbering child — 
If slumber might be call'd, that but o'erspread 
A wan disquiet o'er the wither'd cheek. 
Choked the thin breath that through the pallid lip 
Scarce struggled, closed not the soft sunken eye. 
Well Samor knew her, of his love first pledge, 
First, playfullest, and gentlest : he but late 
Luxurious in the fulness of his woe. 
Clings to this 'lorn hope like a drowning man. 
Not yet, not yet in this rude world alone. 
Lavish of fond officious zeal, he bathes 
With water from the stream her marble brow, 
Chafes her; and with his own warm breath recalls 
The wandering life, that like a waning lamp 
Glimmer'd anon, then faded : but when slow 
Unfix'd her cold unmeaning eye regain'd 
Brief consciousness, powerless her languid arm 
Down fell again, half lifted in his hair 
To wreathe as it was wont, with effort faint 
Strove her hard features for a woeful smile : 
And the vague murmurs of her lips 'gan fall 
Intelligible to his ear alone. 

"And thou art come — too late — yet thou art come,"— 
He soothing her with hope, he knew most false, 
Slow modell'd from her broken faltering voice 
One sad continuous story. — " 'T was at eve 
We went to rest, I never slept .so soft ; 
Our mother lull'd us with assurance sweet 
Of thy returning. — By and by I woke. 
But the bright morning was not shining fair, 

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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Nor the birds singing as they used. I saw, 

By a dim dusky light, huge iron men 

With hair iiiie fire, and their fierce voices spake 

Strange language : of my prayers I thought, and strove 

My eyes to close, still those grim-visaged men 

Stood in the wavering darkness by the light 

Of their blue weapons — then they went away. 

I crept out to my mothers couch ; she lay 

Asleep, but not as I have seen her sleep, 

When I have stolen at mom to look on her, 

And thou hast laid me by her quiet side. 

She shiver 'd in her sleeping, and her skin 

Was chilly (o the touch, yet, oh to sleep. 

Even as she did, I long'd ; for they came back. 

Those shapes in all their darkness, all their light; 

Before their rugged faces I felt cold 

As in the snow time ; my eyes could not see, 

Oh, but I heard a dizzy sound, like shrieks 

Of many voices all at once. I thought 

Rude hands were busy on my mother's conch, 

As though to bear her thence — yet woke she not. 

Oh Father, I have never look'd on death. 

But she was dead, I felt that she was dead. 

I could not breathe, yet from my thirsty throat 

My voice was bursting, but down o'er me fell 

The foldings of the couch — long, long it seem'd, 

Ere from that cumbrous weight I struggled forth. 

Then all was silent, all except the dash 

Of distant oars : I cried aloud, and heard 

But my own voice, I search'd, yet found I none ; 

Not one in all these wide and lofty halls — 

My mother, my sweet brothers gone, all gone. 

Almost I wish'd those fierce men might return 

To bear me too in their dread arms away. 

Hither I wander'd, for the river's sound 

Was joyous to the silence that came cold 

Over my bosom, since the Sun hath shone. 

Yet it seem'd dark— but oh, 't is darker now. 

Darker, my Father, all within cold, cold, 

The soft warmth of thy lips no more can reach 

This shuddering in my breast — yet kiss me still." — 

A^ain, all in vain, that languid neck no more 
Rises to meet his fondness, that pale hand 
Drops from his shoulder, that wooed voice hath spent 
Its last of sweetness : wanted this alone 
That could enhance his agony, bafRed hope. 
Quiet and cool the deep tide at his feet 
Rolls with a tranquil murmur; one lone gleam 
Still lingering from the sunken Sun, beneath 
The moving surface, lightens its cold depth. 
How pleasant in its secret caves to quench 
The soul, the body's fever ; to cast off" 
This restless, trembling consciousness, that clings 
Enamour'd to its anguish, sedulous 
To nurse its own disquiet: not to feel. 
Though cast by wandering waves on Emeric's grave ; 
Though Saxon barks triumphant bound above, 
To feel not, and have freedom though in death. 
For why this barren wilderness of earth 
Still haunt, man's pity, and the arch fiend's scofT; 
Why to the wearying wretchedness of life 



Cling with a coward fondness ? — but a step 
To quiet — to forgetfulness, a step. 

But alien to proud Samor, those bad thoughts 
Startled his nature, burnt his soul with shame. 
That such unholy musings dare intrude 
On its sad sanctity ; upright he sprung; 
Oh, not in vain a Christian, with clench'd hand 
And inward rack convulsive of choked pain, 
Forced calmness to his brow , his hollow voice 
Wrought to a mournful fortitude. — "Oh thou. 
Glorious in thy prosperity of crime, 
Hengist, and thou that barter'st thy old fame 
For sweet lascivious chambering, hast unking'd 
Thy stately soul within the wreathing arms 
Of that fair Saxon, in loose dalliance soft 
To steep the inebriate sense, on Samor's state 
Look, and be pale with envy ; he dare stand 
Lofty beneath yon starry throne of God, 
And bless him, that his fate is scant and poor 
In joys like yours, by all your pomp, your bliss. 
Made lovesick of his misery ; still he feels 
The haughty solace of disdain; still soothes 
The madness of his grief by pitying you. 
Nor yet, oh impotent of cruelly ! 
I am not utterly from this dark world 
Estranged and outcast : gone, for ever gone, 
Those exquisite mild luxuries of the heart. 
That summer sunshine of tlie soul, sweet love, 
That makes life what we deem of heaven ; remain 
Hardier delights, severer joys. Oh reft 
Of all thy brave, thy princely, of my faith 
Thou hast a deeper need — be thou my bride, 

Britain! to thy wreck I proudly wed 
The sadness of my widowhood, and bid 
Pale bridemaids to our nuptials, holy Wrath 
And iron-handed Vengeance; and invoke 

Death, that dark minstrel, from fast-slaughter'd mounds 
Of Saxons, to awake our bridal hymn. 
And spread for torchlight on our spousal eve 
Wild gratulation of their funeral fires. 

" And thou, O stainless denizen of heaven ! 
Soft soul of my lost Emeric, endure 
Though jealous my new bride from thee bereave 
The rude tumultuous day, the midnight hour 

1 consecrate to thee ; then slide thou down. 
Like moonlight on the darkness' raven wing, 
And oh! if human passion, human love. 
Stain the pure essence of immortal spirits, 
Leave heaven in heaven, earth's frailer loveliness 
Resuming, chaste mild fondness, timorous warmth 
Visit my desert fancy. Him by day. 

Savage and merciless, with soul of steel. 
And pale brow cloudy with a nation's cares. 
Shall midnight find an amorous dreamer fond, * 
A dotard on a dim unreal shade." 

Now o'er what was the rosy, playful, warm, 
Now pale, now changeless, icy cold the maid 
Whose blue eyes danced with rapture, whose light step 
Was consort to the air-roving winds (half seal'd 
That lustreless wan azure ; stiff and damp 

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285 



Those sprightly limbs,) oft pausing as yet loath 
To part from what he shudder'd to behold, 
Heaps Samor the light earth ; ere o'er her face 
He placed the primrose knot, once stoop'd his lips, 
And started to find cold what he knew dead. 

Now closed that mournful office, nearing fast 
Is heard a dash of oars, and at his side 
Forth leap'd an armed Saxon, with raised arm 
Menacing; but Samor down with scornful strength 
The grim intruder dash'd to earth, and fix'd 
His stern heel on his neck, and stood in act 
The life to trample from the gasping trunk. 
Sudden withdrawn his angry tread, he spake, 
" Thee first of Saxon race, thee last, this arm 
Spares, not of milky mercy, but as meet 
To minister my purpose; go unscathed, 
And tell to Hengist, tell thy Lord, who robs 
The Lion's den, should chain the Lion first ; 
Add, Samor is abroad."— Then to the boat 
He sprang, and pass'd to Severn's western shore. 



BOOK VL 



A VOICE, o'er all the waste and prostrate isle 
Wandereth a valiant voice ; the hill, the dale, 
Forest and mountain, heath and ocean shore 
Treasure its mystic murmurs; all the winds 
From the bleak moody East to that soft gale 
That wantons with the summer's dewy flowers. 
Familiar its dark burthen waft abroad. 

Is it an utterance of the earth ? a sound 
From the green barrows of the ancient dead ? 
Doth fierce Cassivelan's cold sleep disdain 
Tiiat less than Caesar with a master's step 
Walk his free Britain ? Doth thy restless grave, 
Bonduca, to the slavish air burst ope, 
And thou, amid the laggard cars of war. 
Cry, " Harness and away !" But far and wide. 
As when from marish dank, or quaking fen, 
Venomous and vast the clouds uproll, and spread 
Pale pestilence along the withering land, 
So sweeps o'er all the isle his wasting bands 
The conqueror Saxon ; he, far worse, far worse 
His drear contagion, that the body's strength 
Wastes, and with feverish pallor overlays 
The heaven-shaped features ; this the nobler soul. 
With slavery's base sickliness attaints, 
Making man's life more hideous than his death. 
Thames rolls a Saxon tide ; in vain delays 
Deep Severn on Plinlimmon's summits rude 
His narrow freedom, tame anon endures 
Saxon dominion : high with arms uplift. 
As he had march'd o'er necks of prostrate kings, 
Caswalion on the southern shore of Trent 
Drives onward, he nought deeming won, while aug 
Remains unvvon. But slill that wonderous voice. 
Like vulture in the grisly wake of war, 
Hovers, and flings on air his descant strange. 



" Vengeance and Vigilance !" — in van, in rear, 
Around, above, beneath, the clouds of Heaven 
Enshroud it in their misty folds ; earth speaks 
From all her caves, " Vengeance and Vigilance !" 
Aye, at that sound the Briton crest assumes 
High courage and heroic shame ; he wears 
With such bold mien his slavery, he might seem 
Lord over fortune, and with calm disdain 
He locks his fetters, like proud battle arms. 
Without a foe o'er this wide land of foes 
Marcheth the Saxon. City, tower, and fort 
On their harsh hinge roll back their summon'd gates, 
With such a sullen and reluctant jar. 
Submission seems defiance. Though to fear 
Impassive, scarce the Victor dare unfurl 
Banner of conquest on the jealous air. 
Less perilous were frantic strife, were wrath 
Desperate of life, and blind to death, wild hate 
Of being struck all heedless so it strike. 
Than this high haughty misery, that fierce woe 
Baflfles by brave endurance, and confronts 
With cold and stem contentedness all ill. 
Outrage, and insult, ravage, rape, and wreck, 
That dog barbaric Conquerors' march of war. 
'Tis like ihe sultry silence, ushering forth 
The thunder's cloudy chariot, rather like 
The murky smothering of volcanic fire 
Within its rocky prison ; forth anon 
Bursts the red captive, to the lurid heaven 
Upleaps, and with its surging dome of smoke 
Shuts from the pale world the meridian Sun. 
But in their camp, in fierce divan and full. 
The lordly robbers sate, assemblage proud, 
Elhling, and Erie, and King, for council met. 
For council and carousal ;* so ihey deem'd 
The drunken sense would hardier daring grasp. 
And the bold revel of the blood, the soul 
Flush to more noble valiance, strong desire 
In fierce embrace to meet that mistress dark. 
Danger: Hoarse din of merriment, the air 
Smote with meet music blending loud and deep. 

But Horsa lighting with disdainful mirth 
His broad bright eye, 'gan scoff with rugged jest. 
"Ill have we done, though for one sumptuous feast 
Be ours this spacious isle, ill have we done ; — 
That in our prodigal and heedless waste 
Of those tall high-born Britons spared we none 
To tilt at with our thirsty spears, and scare 
The frost and slumber from our sluggish hearts. 
Now hang we forth our banners to disport 
In the smoooth breeze, our armour's steeled clasps 
To summons soft of Lady's tender hands 
Surrender ; or go joust the hardy oaks 
For pastime. Oh ! along these velvet plains 
To prance 'mid timorous hinds with their pale souls 
In their white faces, heralds crouching low. 
With looks beseeching, voices meek, clasp'd hands; 
'T is tame and wearisome as at dead noon 
To rock upon the flat and hazy sea." 



* De pace denique ac bello plcrumque in conviviis consul- 
tant ; tanquam nullo magis lempore act ad simpliccs coeita- 
tionespateat animus, aut ad magnas incalescat.--TAC. Germ. 

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" This too," cried hoary Cerdic ; " this bright sword 
Loathes its long Christian fast, yet not despairs 
Erewhile to glut with banquet rich and full 
Its ravening blade ; for trust me, fiery Erie, 
Many a fierce steed hath brook'd the brazen curb, 
That chafed anon, from his high seat to dust 
Hath shaken his pale rider : Erie, I read 
In yon bow'd foreheads sterner characters 
Than abject, tame allegiance, homage base: 
There the firm purpose, meditation deep, 
And study of revenge ; the wand of peace 
Is in their hands, but in their souls they grasp 
The battle-axe and spear." — A bitter laugh 
Came with the fierce reply, "Shall Horsa watch 
The shifiings in the visage of a slave? 
I issue forth my mandate, and 'tis done. 
Whether with cloudy or with sunshine brow 
I know not and regard not." — Cerdic's voice, 
Ruffled to somewhat of prophetic tone : 

" Not, Horsa, to the stones, the deaf dull stones, 
Nor the cold current of the senseless winds 
Speaks that wild orator, the Man, whose paths 
Are hidden as the ways of fate, unknown 
Who knoweth all, who seeth all unseen. 
Nor like the lightning shaft his presence dread 
Divulgeth, but to shatter, but to slay. 
Whose breath beneath the soft dove's snowy down 
A soul might breathe of valour to outsoar 
The falcon's pitch of pride : I tell thee, Erie, 
This soft effeminate Britain, to our sway 
Gentle and pliant as a willow wand. 
Will that dark Man uprear a ponderous Mare 
To crush our infant empire." — " Man ! hath man 
Curdled the blood of OfTa, made his soul 
Patient of that pale trembling motion, fear, 
And Offa live, live shameless of his shame. 
Amid his peers with unblench'd front to say, 
These knees have quail'd, these stubborn joints have 

felt 
The aspen's coward fluttering, and the Sun 
That saw his flight, hath seen not his revenge? 
Cerdic, the name of perishable man 
Thou dost belie, so titling beings dim, 
Viewless and formless denizens of air. 
That sport and dally with the human shape, 
Making of mortals to their mortal peers. 
Dark things of doubt and danger. We had sworn, 
Gurmund and Sigvart, ^Ella, Attilar, 
And other six, than who no German arm 
Sways heavier the long lance, nor German foot 
Treads firmer battle's crimson paths, I speak, 
Fiery-soul'd Horsa, to thy front ; to thine. 
High-sceptred Ilengist ! mortal steel we swore 
Should choke that full-voiced Wanderer's clamorous 

breath. 
Sage oath! as to adjure our souls, and vow 
Th' irregular mad ocean our word ' Peace' 
Should hearken, and sleek smooth his cresting waves. 
But gaily went we forth with brand and bow, 
Like hunters to the chase, scoffing our prey. 
' Now if he meet us in his mortal shape, 
Let him melt back into his native air; 



Then shall he 'scape.' — High o'er our path a rock 

Hung beetling, from its summit came a voice, 

' Behold him!' — with the voice a fragment vast, 

An earthquake had been weak to hurl it forth; 

Two stately necks to the low earth sank down. 

And o'er them that huge mass lay stern and still. 

Like an old giant's monument. But we 

Leap'd onward, yElla met the dark unknown, 

Heavy with ruin hung his arm in air. 

But in his valiant heart a javelin stood. 

Drinking the crimson life. Still on we swept. 

Many a wild league o'er moor and marish swamp. 

Forest and wold, and still our pathway lay 

O'er the warm corpses of our foremost peers. 

Sole, sad survivors of our host, we came, 

Sigvart and OfTa; on the giddy brink 

Of precipice abrupt the conqueror paused. 

As weary with his prowess, our defeat, 

To mock us with the calmness of his rest. 

' Now come what will,' cried Sigvart, ' come what may» 

Or thou, or I, or both.' — Then on he sprung, 

Yet not the more relax'd that shape of gloom 

Its stern contemptuous quiet, waved his arm 

With motion less of strife than proud command. 

And then of Sigvart's fall the deep abyss 

Sent up a hollow sound. I fled, proud Peers ; 

I say again, I fled, and, or disdain'd 

That being dark a lone and single foe, 

Or by the shielding of our mightier Gods, 

I 'scaped." — "I too (cried Hermingard), I loo 

Of that mysterious Wanderer have known 

The might and savage mercy. I had stray'd 

Into a fabric fair, of Christian Gods, 

A fane it seem'd, rich-crested pillars ranged 

On either side, above the hollow roof 

Aye lessening, seem'd to melt into the air 

On which it floated. — High uprear'd there shone 

An altar, bright with chalice, lamp, and cup, 

All of the flaming gold. I rush'd to seize; 

An arm was on my neck, that dash'd me down 

Like a soft infant ; then a vengeful voice 

Struck on my dizzy hearing — ' But thy blood 

Would dye this holy pavement wilh foul stain. 

Heathen, thy soul and mortal shape were rent 

Asunder.' — As I fled, I turn'd — reclined 

Low by that altar on his knees, all quench'd 

Fierce wrath and fiery menace, drooping all 

Stern pride of mastery, triumph, and high scorn. 

That wild Unknown, calm not wilh weariness, 

Genlle but not with sleep. Majestic light 

Beam'd on the quiet of his heavenv^ard brow. 

Yet human tears stood glittering in his eyes. 

My thoughts were vengeance, but the cold clear air 

Went creeping up my veins, an awful frost 

Drank up the languid current of my blood, 

And unrevenged I fled that tranquil Man." 

Upsprang young Abisa, and beauteous scorn 
Curl'd his smooth cheek — "In tumult or in calm. 
But have he blood within his beating veins. 
Mine is a steel of such a searching thirst, 
'Twill drain its crimson source." "Thou! wanton 
Boy," 

295 



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287 



The pale laugh wrinkling on his swelling lip. 

" Thou ! thou ! (cried Offa) with thy mother's milk 

Yet white within thy beardless cheek." — " Proud Jute, 

The stem of Woden is a mourning tree, 

Its saplings soar to meet the golden Sun, 

While tamer shrubs creep with base trail on earth. 

Hengist, my King, my Brother ! by our Sire 

I swear, that ne'er again metheglin cup 

Shall sparkle on these lips, till I have met 

This mystic deity of Offa 's fear." 

Then on the Monarch turn'd all eyes ; he sate 
In darkness, or, by chance or art, the lamps 
Stream'd bright and yellow down the festal board 
But fell no ray within his folded robe. 
Yet wore not Hengist on his brow his soul, 
High spake he from its cold and stately calm 
Law to the lawless, to the dauntless dread ; 
But his were rarer qualities of power, 
Dominion o'er himself; deep, deep within 
Dwelt all the stormy passions ; by no eye 
Pierced in its dark abiding lay the spirit 
With all its shames and grandeurs, loves and hates. 
And all its greedy family of lusts. 
Though now there seem'd beneath his royal crown 
A faint uncertain paleness, as of fear 
Not wholly quell'd, and on his cheek and lip 
Hover'd a quivering motion, ere he spake. 
But cool his speech. — " Presumptuous youth, thy oath 
Though wild, is holy — Woden guard thee well. 
Yet art thou sole in madness ? time hath been 
When the brave frenzy of rash daring spread 
A broad contagious flame through all our camp. 
Till not a sword but shamed its sluggish sheath. 
Needed not Saxon king, as now, to gild 
Fair danger ere it pleased, as now proclaim 
Rich guerdon to the warrior, that aspires 
To rival Woden's blood, and be the peer 
Of Abisa in peril and renown. 
More lofty duties fetter thee and me. 
High Horsa" — (for the fiery warrior's hand 
Had started to his sword's familiar hilt) 
Rob we not of their fame the valiant Erles." 

No seat was vacant, not a voice came forth. 
As he were single in his shame sate each. 
Nor dared on his compeers to look, in fear 
Soul might be there more dauntless than his own. 
Blank silence all ! but loud that silence spake 
Not vainly, Samor, worn thy title proud, 
Avenger! by thy country's Conquerors thou 
Magnificently deified ; so soar'd 
Thy mortal virtue o'er their tamer Gods. 
Not that the vassal elements thy sway 
Hearken'd, nor beings of the middle air 
Stoop'd on their glistening wings to work thy will. 
Avenger ! but for thee, the Almighty wrought 
Most marv'lous, most mirac'lous ; in thy soul, 
That nobler field, high wonders manifold 
Labour'd to light and lustre : for what thought 
Unwing'd by in-breathed Godhead e'er might dream 
Of glory to be born from this broad niglit 
Of desolation and deep darkness, strive 
For liiint, impalpable, and airy good, 
2N 



Through the thick clouds of evil and of woe. 

Strong, stately, constant, like an eagle set 

To drink the last light of the parting sun ? 

What heart of earthly clay, that ne'er imbibed 

Holier and purer ether, might endure 

Danger, dismay, despair, all ills that wring 

Within, and rack and rankle ? not alone 

Fierce wrong and insult of triumphant foe, 

But worse, far worse, from those our friends mis- 

deem'd. 
Pity of calm, cold cowards, or rude scorn 
From sleek and smiling slaves ; or scoff and mock 
At our hard sufferings from those ingrate hearts 
For whom we suffer ; these the woes that wait 
That nobly desperate, who with steadfast hand 
The statue of his country's fame, down dash'd 
And trampled by barbarian feet, ingrain'd 
With the coarse dust and black, before the world 
Would rear again to sov'reignty and state. 
But thou didst strive and Suffer, thou didst hope, 
And therefore in thy dark and silent deeds 
Beam'd manifest God's Spirit; till in thee 
Even the base body that e'er clogs and clouds 
The nobler energies, its state infirm 
Shook off and by communion close assumed 
The soul's immortal essence, or the soul 
A climate and peculiar atmosphere 
Spread round its weaker instrument of power. 
Hence human accidents of heat and cold. 
Famine and thirst, wasting and weariness. 
Fell light and thin upon thy tranquil frame. 
Like flakes of snow upon th' unbroken lake ; 
Thus didst thou pass most fearless, and most fear'd ; 
By virtue, and thy foeman's dread, array'd 
In attributes of strong divinity ; 
Danger became thy safety, thy renown 
Grew from thy utter desperate wretchedness. 

But now the more enjoy'd that Saxon youth 
His solitude of glory ; forth he springs 
Hasty, lest valorous repentance fire 
Some rival Erie of half his peril yet 
To wrong him. In his tent, soft languid sounds 
Expiring on her falling lute, arose 
To welcome home her Lord his beauteous slave ; 
His slave I is that her slavery, round his neck 
The snowy girdle of her arms to wreathe ? 
To catch a master's mandate doth she raise 
The bashful fringes of her eyes, and meet 
Those glances of no lordly scorn, that soothe 
Her gentle wayward angriness of love. 
Soothe, dare not chide, that coldness faint and brief 
That would be wooed, but sweeter to be won ? 
Nor dares not she withhold that arm upraised 
From their high stand the furniture of fight, 
Glaive, corslet, morion to displace; her touch 
Now clings with soft resistance, playful now 
Thwarts his stern purpose. — "Oh, remove not them; 
In hours of absence, thou too dearly lovest, 
They are my comfort, my companions they, 
My all but thou : the dusky shades of eve 
Brown o'er their glittering steal, and there array, 
A bright and armed man, th' ofllcious air 
297 



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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS, 



Gives motion, and with all thy graceful pride 
Shakes the light plumage ; thou art there, in spite 
Of thy own lardy lingering, thou art there. 
Oh, I have woke at midnight, when my soul 
With thee haih been a vvanderer through sad fields, 
'Mid death and battle, though my lightest touch 
Had proved thee by my side, yet my faint hand 
Lack'd courage with that dangerous proof to front 
My unsubstantial fears. Oh then, if light 
Of star or moon on their blue surface gleam'd, 
Or wind awoke them into sound, again 
Calm on my pillow droop'd my cheek to rest, 
Secure to find thee sweetly slumbering there. 
Yet, yet unwon, oh, lighten that cold brow, 
And I will sing the soft and sleepy song 
That makes a woman of thy angry eyes. 
Lulls the rude tumult in thy troubled breast, 
Leaving nought there but melody and me." 

Then started she to feel how hard and cold 
Between her and her bosom's resting-place 
The corslet lay, by stealth her fond embrace 
Supplanting; gently his one arm declined 
Over her neck, in careless fondness hangs; 
Busy the other, its rude office frames, 
Linking the breastplate's clasps ; now holds he back 
From her approaching lips his cheek, to fix 
The weighty morion ; but her garrulous grief 
Paused not — " At midnight ! now! oh brave misdeem'd, 
Misdeem'd, who only th' open day would front 
With his bold armour ; who but I would love, 
I, weak and brain-sick, one whose valour shrouds 
Its prowess in the cloudy gloom of night ? 
Oh not, oh not to war, thou goest to win 
Some lovelier or some newer bride. Go, go ; 
Though faithless, barbarous, cruel, cold to me. 
Yet make not her too wretched, make not her 
Heart-sick with sad expectance." — But her arms 
Belied her desperate language, closer clasp'd 
With more than maiden strength. "Oh, stony heart, 
And I for thee forsook my infant home, 
Where all my steps were music, all my smiles 
Glad sunshine to my parents' wintry blood, 
That glanced like summer waters at my sight: 
For thee did violence to my virgin fame: 
By war's rude force might I have seem'd enthrall'd, 
A luckless, pitied damsel ; my fond heart 
111 brook'd the coarse reproach of ravisher 
Should couple with a name so dear as thine. 
At night-fall fled I to thee ; even as now 
The stars shone beauteous, and a kindly gloom 
Curtain'd our meeting even as now ; no change 
From soft and fond and gentle, but in thee." — 
"Peace, trembler, peace! to-morrow's dawn shall hail, 
Borne in the shield of honour, on the necks 
Of his tall peers, thy Abisa; no voice 
Silent, no quiet in the troubled air. 
Restless with his hymn'd triumph, OfTa's heart 
Sick with wan envy. Then Myfiinwy, then 
My glory shall make rapture of thy tears. 
And thou shalt bless the grief that wrings thee now." 
" Oh, glory hath a stern and savage mate, 
Danger her lawless paramour, enfolds 



Her beauties in his churlish arms. Oh pause. 
And yet farewell, 'tis exquisite to part. 
For oh, thou weep'st at parting, 'twas past hope 
To see a tear on that stern face for me." — 

She hath her last cold kiss through the barr'd helm 
Won hardly ; she is calm as though it dwelt 
Yet on her lips ; she hears his parting steps, 
Yet lingers on her cheek that liquid glow, 
That brilliant harmony of smile and tear 
That at the presence of the one beloved 
Flils o'er the settled purple of the cheek. 
Oh, if soft woman hath her wilder fears, 
She hath her wilder hopes, for man's stern grasp 
Too thin, too airy ! " Never yet found false, 
Thou wilt return ;" (so wanton'd her gay dreams) 
" So young, so lovely, fate would shame to snatch 
So early the choice glories of the earth." 
Then sate she down triumphal coronets 
To weave, but not in modest quiet grief. 
And gentle resignation pale and mild. 
But with a dancing heart and bright blithe eye : 
And when her eyelids droop'd, soft o'er her came 
A sweet inconstant slumber, such as sleep 
Love-dreaming maidens ere their bridal morn. 
But through the clear calm night, the azure plain 
Of heaven, with all its glittering paths of light 
Distinct and dazzling, moved that fair-hair'd youth : 
So if old fable may be won to smile 
Its grace upon our darker tale, the boy, 
Smooth-cheek'd Endymion, his enamour'd Moon 
Wooed with no lawless witchcraft from her sphere : 
Nor she delay'd, her silver-sandal'd feet 
Gliding and glancing o'er the dews she came. 
And curtain'd in a cloud of snowy light, 
Mock'd mortal harps that hymn'd her cold and chaste. 
No amorous fancies o'er thy downless cheek 
Flushing their rosy heat, no love-lipp'd tones 
In sweet disturbance stealing on tjie air. 
Young Abisa ! with more imperious charm 
Thou summon'st from wild wood or cavern 'd heath. 
Nor vainly, their fierce habitant. Behold, 
A shadow by thine own, its stately length 
On the white dews advancing; at thy side 
The Avenger, as upsprung from nether earth. 

Then fatal gladness leap'd in that young heart, 
He flung his vizor'd helmet proudly up. 
And dash'd defiance 'gainst fierce Ofl^a's dread. 

But Samor, for when his pure heart w-as wean'd 
From all the faint and feeble of his kind. 
The mercies clung within, and gentleness 
So mingled with his nature, that it slaked 
Even the blood-thirsting frenzy of revenge ; 
Samor that beauteous youth survey'd, the stars 
Glimmer'd a blue and hazy light, that show'd 
His soft locks spreading their bright clusters wide. 
His vermeil cheek most lovely in its wrath. 
And brow that seem'd to wonder and delight 
At its own dauntlessness. So tail, so fair, s 

Oft had he imaged his own perish'd boy 
In flower of youth, that flower which never bloom'd. 
Tender and mild his voice, as though he spake 
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SAMOR. 



289 



Even to that dead beloved — "Oh, brave and fair, 

Why thus abroad amid the silent night, 

With menace and fierce gesture wild and strange ?" 

" Thou heardst my call, thou seest my arms, my aim 

Idly thou quesiion'st." — "'Tis not, gentle youth, 

Thy golden luxury of hair, nor cheek 

Warm in the rosy vi'antonness of youth. 

But thy brave bearing, gallant mien and proud. 

That winds long-banish'd mercy round my sword. 

To save from it one Saxon life." — " Soft praise, 

And sweet from lady's lips, but not to hear 

Smooth Flattery's descant come I, but to win 

What, being won, is in its lofty self 

Imperishable beauty, garlands youth 

With honour passing the white hairs of age, 

Glory, the life of life." — " And is there none 

Whose pillow dreams of thee are haunting now? 

No mother, whose last waking thought was hope, 

At morn, to meet thee in thy wonted glow 

Of loveliness and life ? No gentle maid 

Whom the bare thought of paleness in thy cheek. 

Of death's wan chill upon thy brow, would waste 

And wither like the canker'd flower of spring? 

Return to her, oh fair, high-minded youth I 

Ere yet too late, return." — But more delay 

The hot youth brook'd not ; down he clasp'd his helm. 

And leaping to the frantic onset, cried, 

" Now, Offa, for thy shame, and for thy meed. 

My brother Hengist!" — As when lightning flame 

Dashes at midnight o'er his slumbering lids, 

Up starts the wild steed, all his tawny mane 

Bristling and blazing, he devours the earth 

In fury ; even so sudden those rash words 

Set flames upon the Avenger's brow, set wrath 

On the impetuous motion of his spear. 

Oh, holy Night! in thy injurious gloom 
How blank the proud distinctions of man's fame ! 
Languor and loftiness, and shame and pride 
In one dead darkness, deep forgetfulness. 
Lie, as within a grave, till Virtue's self. 
But for her haughty consciousness within. 
Might weary of her mute and viewless deeds. 
Secret and still! that I might violate 
Thy mysteries, and redeem from envious gloom 
That Saxon boy's dead honours, dearly won. 
Most dearly, yet most nobly. Morn shall tell 
The issue of that conflict, but no morn 
Will dawn upon his silent, perish'd praise. 

Two hours are past, alone the Avenger moves 
Under the stars of heaven ; 't is midnight deep, 
Now comes his hour of softness ; love-sick boy, 
Tuning soft frenzies to his wanton lute. 
Is not more wild, fantastical, or fond. 
Than Britain's stately hope, high Hengist's dread. 
For ever at this hour, of parted joy 
Dim gleams revisit his forsaken soul. 
Like once-loved music o'er a maniac's ear; 
Faintly and feebly sweet, the dead put on 
Their earthly lustre ; Emeric comes, as fair 
As from the bridal altar, but less coy. 
In fervent full abandonment of love. 



The breezes are melodious with her voice, 
The dews are printed by her slender feet. 
She flows into his arms, her fond embrace 
Is warm upon his soul. Thus aye she comes. 
Or when 'tis wintry in the starless slues. 
Or when the moonlight bathes the earth, to her 
Heaven opes its crystal portals, beauteous light 
Ushers her presence, sleep can ne'er estrange 
That luxury from his heart ; when consciousness 
Of all things earthly slumbereth and is dead. 
She haunts within, her sweet intrusion clings 
To the lull'd spirit, senseless but to her, 
All, all the living of the man is her's. 

Oh, in their dreamings, their communions wild 
With airy, immaterial visitants. 
Most differ Guilt and Virtue ; there are shapes 
Hideous and hateful, snaky Gorgon smiles. 
And all the fabled populace of hell. 
Brooding disquiet o'er the thorny couch ; 
But Virtue's visions are almost as fair 
As angels' blest realities; to thee 
Lovely thy nightly visitant, said Chief! 
As to man, sinless yet in Eden bowers. 
On beds of odorous amaranth asleep. 
Yet uncreated, came his virgin bride. 
Delicate phantom; then his fresh pure soul 
Amorous enchantment first entranced, first rose 
That our best feeling, of lost Paradise 
That sole surviving pleasure, holy love. 

Beauteous thy blue uprising, mist-robed Morn! 
All thy bright glittering of fantastic dews 
With their thin tissue silkening the green meads, 
And all thy music of blithe leaves that dance 
In the caressing breeze, and matins gay 
From all the living woodland. Sleep is pleased 
To be so sweetly banish'd her soft reign. 
But dreary are thy sounds, and sad thy light 
On the lewd wassail, riot's orgies rude. 
Polluting day with sights that shame dark night. 
Now from the state pavilion forth are pour'd 
The synod of high banqueters, their eye.s 
Hot with loose raptures and distemper'd joy, 
Voluptuously turbulent their souls. 
Right in their way stood fix'd a lofty spear. 
Not with gay garland crovin'd, or streaming silk. 
But, with that beauteous head that yesternight 
Confronted them with graceful pride ; the cheek 
Where wantonly youth's rosy banner gleam'd. 
Pale, dewy, stifl^ening, lifeless, lustreless ; 
Part matted with red damp the golden locks 
Climg round the spear, part curling on the air. 
Sad semblance shovv'd of life, in all the rest 
Making the stillness and fix'd cold more dread. 

No cheek was there so bright, voluptuous heart 
So hot, but, like bleak snow, fear fell on it 
With a cold thrill and searching; if their sight 
Had yet perception, humbler chiefs might draw 
From high example comfort for their dread ; 
Brow might they see with kingly crown beset. 
White, sad, and shrunken as their own. Alone, 
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Fierce smiled the pride of Offa ; he held up 
To those wan lips the sparkling shell of mead : 
"Drink, thou hast kept thy oath, drink, soft-lipp'd 

boy !" 

O'er all the camp spread loud and wide and far 
The name of Abisa; Myfanvvy heard 
Where lay she dreaming half, and fabling half 
Of garlands and of gay triumphal pomp. 
How nimble are the feet that bear light hearts! 
She is gone forth, and all for joy forgot 
The veil e'er wont to dim her dazzling cheek, 
Forgot the braiding of her hair, the maid 
So soft, so timorous, at the wanton breeze 
She oft hath trembled, 'neath day's eye retired 
Even from the fondness of her own loved youth. 
Through files of warriors, who uncasque their brows 
To fill their curious gaze, she hurries on, 
She knows not what she sees, and only knows 
She sees not what she seeks, that cheek, that eye 
Which fed on her with such excess of love 
As if 'twere worse than blindness to lose sight 
Of its sole idol ; only she is blithe. 
She only smiling 'mid those many sad. 
She meets even all she longs for ; up from earth 
(For now from that sad eminence of scorn 
Had friendly hand removed it, now had cleansed 
Its damp defilement) that dear face on her 
Settled its fix'd and inexpressive gaze. 
Her mien was strangely rational, her look 
Like one that calmly ponder'd what it saw, 
Her voice articulate and passionless. 
"Who hath done this?" — "The Avenger, the un- 
known," 
Spake many voices.—" Oh, my hands are weak ; 
Ye see them soft and delicate and white, 
But thou, and thou, and thou, art bold and strong. 
And bear'st bright armour, ye will sure requite 
The slaughter on the slaughterer's head." — Ensued 
Brief moments of a stagnant grief, life paused. 
As 't would prolong unconsciousness ; delay 
Yet, yet that state that wakes with waking sense. 
Then kindled up her eye, but not with joy. 
Then flush'd her cheek a light and sanguine red, 
That its fair marble flitted o'er, but left 
Nor tinge nor warmth ; she snatch'd up to her heart 
That lifeless thing and fled ; as some fond bird 
With spread wings hovering o'er her nest, looks round 
At some black shape of fear, then turns to see 
If yet her callow brood are slumbering safe: 
So wandering her dim eye on all around, 
Anon with full intensity of love. 
Settled on her cold care. She reach'd the tent, 
There miserly her treasure she o'erbroods; 
She lays it on her lap, and sings to it, 
Kow gazes as she thought even yet those eyes 
Might open, those wan lips, their wonted sounds 
Murmur, now almost sees a forming smile : 
Now gaily carols on her broken songs. 
Ever his favourite, most familiar tones, 
And now breaks off, as iearful to disturb 
His quiet slumbers, only speaks in smiles. 
Language by him e'er understood, and once, 



Once her rash lips approach 'd : so pass'd the hours 
From earliest morning till the setting sun. 
Then that wild spirit and playfulness of grief 
Sadden'd to drear sobriety, gave place 
Sweet-dreaming twilight to the bright clear day. 
Then first she thought of beasts and fowls obscene 
Battening on his lair limbs, no hand to heap 
The scanty pity of a little earth 
Upon the brave, the princely, and the fair: 
Envious of partner in her sacred toil. 
Bearing her cold wan burthen in her arms, 
Alone upon the pious quest she speeds. 
She fears not, ah too wretched now to fear ! 
Darkness is on her steps, but what to her 
Though nature's rich varieties are blank ? 
Her guide the unblinded sympathies within; 
The love that link'd her to his living soul 
Will light her to him lifeless ; yon wan stars. 
That struggle with the haze, are bright enough 
To beam upon the dead. But now more fast 
Their golden cressets multiply, more clear, 
And lo fierce Offa in her path : his eye 
Fix'd on her with a rude imperious lust, 
As the pollution of his bad desires 
Did honour to their victim. But the maid, 
Unbelieving, unsuspecting aught impure. 
With sweet beseeching, almost with caress. 
Would win her onward passage; when her soul 
Was startled into fear, she would not think 
Such savage nature dwelt in human hearts. 
She wept, she sued, she drew the veil away, 
Upheld that lovely lifeless thing — in vain : 
The snowy dove is in the rude kite's grasp. 
Pale, fluttering, fainting; upon Heaven she call'd, 
Cruelly calm look'd on her the cool skies; 
She call'd on Abisa, but only felt 
More deeply that cold glassiness of face. 
That dull, indifferent witness of her shame; 
But in the stress and hurry of despair 
Strange energies were hers, with frantic voice 
She call'd on the Avenger — Lo, he comes. 
Terrible in the silence of his arms. 
And earth is dank with Offa's lustful blood. 
But her first motion was a frantic kiss 
On Abisa's cold lips, as though for him 
Proud of the untainted treasure of her love ; 
Then turn'd to her preserver, but with looks 
Of loathing more than thankfulness; he stood 
In gentle majesty serene, yet proud 
Of that light victory, of prevented crime 
Severely joyful ; bitter .strife of heart 
Spake in her language — " Had it been but death, 
I yet had cursed thee .' oh, look here, look here ! 
(And she withdrew the clust'ring curls that veil'd 
The rigid deathfulness of that (iiir brow) 
Oh, one sole feeling to this dead heart secm'd 
A duty and delight, the hate of thee. 
Cruel, even that thou enviest me, even that." 
"That, British maiden.' is a Saxon's face. 
Yet mourns thy amorous heart in guilty tears?" 
" Is there not beauty in a Saxon's cheek, 
Is there not music on a Saxon's tongue. 
Is there not tenderness in Saxon hearts ? 
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291 



Oh, he is kind and true, his love to me 
Almost as deep and fond, as mine to him : 
Wild that I am, he was — that fatal was 
Makes agony my sacred thought of him." — 
" Maiden, by Wy^'s transparent stream abode 
An aged pair, and their declining day 
One beauteous child enlighten'd, and dispensed 
Soft moonlight o'er their darkening eve; they thought 
The only pang of death from her to part. 
But heavy was their sinking to the grave, 
For that fair beam in unchaste darkness quench'd 
Its virgin lustre, and its light withdrew. 
Of their old limbs the life : alone they dwelt. 
In discontent and cold distaste of all. 
As her ingratitude had made them sick 
Of the world's hollowness, and if she fail'd 
All earthly things must needs be false and frail. 
They ne'er reproach'd her, for so near the grave 
They could not hate ; but for her sake they loathed 
Each old familiar face, that once they loved. 
Where she was wont to wander, wander'd they ; 
The garden flowers she tended, they bound up 
With woeful care ; their chill and shaking hands 
Made tremulous music with her lute: I shrunk 
In hoary age to see such childish joys. 
They felt one after-pleasure ; the same hour 
They glided from their woes, their parting breath, 
Blended in languid blessings on her head, 
For her went suppliant to the throne of God, 
Their lost Myfanwy." — Trembling stood she there. 
Like one that strives to weep, but the hard tears 
Are frozen in their source. " Oh thou and 1, 
Sweet Abisa (to that cold head she spake). 
We will go weep upon their graves, and win 
Their spirits to forgiveness; when they hear 
How fervent and how fatal were our loves, 
Heaven will lend airs to w-aft their mercy down." 
" Fond Maid, beware ! repentance must be chaste 
And spotless as the unsunn'd snow ; wilt thou 
Yet wanton with the memory of thy sin. 
Bad thoughts at revel in thy heart, with vows 
Lightly made up of guilty breath impure. 
Pollute and sicken the clear air that dwells 
About the holy dwellings of the dead ; 
Waver from God to Pagan paramour 
With wandering loose affections ?" " Hard and cold 
Be thou content to have robb'd this widow'd heart 
Of that most lovely breathing thing earth bore. 
But spare, oh spare, the sinless, senseless dead ! 
Cruel, by yon bright stars I oft have sworn 
Ne'er to forego him ; shall 1 crown my sins 
With perjury? I will weep, and fast, and pray. 
And wear the rough stones with my tender knees, 
So thou wilt leave me my sad thoughts of him. 
Oh, God hath grace for all ; my earliest prayer 
Shall be for mercy on his perish'd soul. 
The next for those who dying pray'd for me. 
And for my sad and sinful self the last." 

Most exquisite sorcery of womankind ! 
Even to the fall'n some cherish'd loveliness 
Yet clings, with innocent hypocrisy 
Tricking their failures in such tender hues, 
25 2M 



We blame with tears, enamour'd while we blame. 

Even thus her fervent constancy of love 

Brighten'd that guilty maiden.^ — " God will weigh 

With righteous hand thy sorrows and thy sins. 

Damsel ; I nor absolve thee, nor condemn. 

Come thou with me, and we will reunite 

That beauteous boy's remains: oh thou, even thou, 

Knew'st thou the studious cruelties, cold crimes 

By these barbarians wrought on this sad land, 

Wouldst pardon this dishonour to the corpse 

Of that brave youth." — She leap'd up to his neck, 

" And who art thou, that doest such savage deeds, 

Yet forcest us to love thee ?" — On they past, 

They reach'd the place of death, he dug away 

The earth that fenced from wandering kite and wolf 

Young Abisa 's fair limbs ; he soothed her woes 

By soft participation, her consoled 

By suffering, and the Christian's voice rose up 

In prayers for mercy on a Saxon's soul. 



BOOK VII. 



How measureless to erring human sight 

Is glory! Glorious thy majestic state, 

Hengist! with captive cities for thy thrones. 

And captive nations thy pale satellites, 

Britain, with all her beauty, power, and wealth, 

Thy palace of dominion. Glorious thou, 

Caswallon, in Caer Ebranc's stately courts. 

By the slow waters of the wandering Ouse, 

Bright-sceptred Renegade! Even in j'our crimes 

Glitters a dazzling and meteorous pomp ; 

Though your wild voyage hath lain through waves 

of blood. 
Ye ride triumphant in your royal port. 
But he, sad Pilgrim, outcast and forlorn. 
How doth the midnight of his honour shame 
Your broad meridian, his wild freedom pass 
Your plenitude of sway, his nakedness 
Transcend your sweeping purples, ray'd with gold ! 
Kor wanteth to his state its gorgeous pride. 
And high peculiar majesty ; the pomp 
Of the conspiring elements sheds on him 
Tumultuous grandeurs; o'er his midnight couch. 
Amid the scathed oaks of the mountain moor. 
On its broad wings of gloom the tempest stoops. 
Around his head in crystal coronets 
The lightning falls, as though thy fiery hand. 
Almighty! through the rolling clouds put forth. 
Did honour to the Freeman. Mighty winds 
And the careering thunders spread around 
Turbulent music ; darkness rivals day, 
And day with darkness vies in stateliest pride 
The Avenger's lofty miseries to array. 
VV^hen from the East forth leaps the warrior Sun 
In panoply of golden light, dark cowers 
His own proud eagle, marvelling what strong form, 
Uprising to usurp his haughty right, 
Drinks in the intense magnificence with brow 
Undazzled and unshrinking ; nor to him 

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Fails homage from the Uving shapes of earth : 
On him the savage, fierce and monstrous, fawn 
Tame adoration ; from his rugged sleep 
The wild boar, sleek his bristhng wrath, aloof 
Shrinks, the grim wolf no more his rest disturbs, 
Than the calm motion of the moon she bays. 

Now, by her native sylvan Wye, that Maid 
Left to cold penitence and prayer, again 
Sets forth the high Avenger : now his path 
Through Towey's vale winds velvet soft and green. 
The year is in its waning autumn glow. 
But the warm Sun, with all his summer love, 
Hangs o'er this gentle valley, loath to part 
From the blue stream that to his amorous beams 
]Mow her cool bosom spreads, now coyer slides 
Under her alder shade, whose umbrage green, 
Glancing and breaking the (antastic rays, 
The deep dark mirror frets with mazy light. 
A day that seems in ils rich noon to blend 
All seasons' choice deliciousness, high hung 
On Dmevaur and Carreg Cennon rude, 
And on bold Drusslyn gleam'd the woods their hues, 
Changeful and brilliant, as their leaves had drunk 
The sun's empyreal fountains ; not more bright 
The groves of those Atlantic Isles, where rove 
(Dream'd elder Poesy such fancies sweet) 
The spirits of the brave, stern Peleus' son, 
And Dioraede, through bowers that the blue air 
Arch'd with immortal spring of fragrant gold. 
The merry birds, as though they had o'erdream'd 
The churlish winter, spring-tide virelays 
Carolling, pruned their all-forgotten plumes. 
Upon the sunny shallow lay the trout 
Kindling the soft gems of its skin ; the snake 
As fresh and wanton in its green attire 
Wound its gay rings along the flowery sward. 

That overpowering beauty in mild bonds 
Of sweet amazement and infatuate bliss. 
Took prisoner Samor's spirit. On a rock, 
'Neath a white canopy of glistening birch. 
He lay surrender'd. The thin whispering leaves. 
The welling waters flow, the lingering, long. 
Love-dwelling descant of the joyous birds 
Came mingling with the languor of his sense. 
Most soothing each in turn, mnst slumb'ring soft. 

'T is no harsh breaking in that train of sound 
Delicious, but a low and measured dash 
That blends and deepens all Ihe mingling tones ; 
'Tis nought to cloud or dim that slow intrudes 
On the universal brilliance ; crowning all 
Moves the gay apparition, and fires up 
The restless glittering to intenser blaze. 

Slow up the tide the gaudy bark comes on, 
Her oars scarce startling the unruffled air; 
The waters to her swan-like prow give place. 
Along the oar-blades leap up to the sun 
In lucid flakes, and dance, as't were their sport 
To waft that beauteous freight. And exquisite 
As that voluptuous Memphian on the stream 
Of Cydnus, leading with bliss-breathing smiles 



Her throngs of rash beholders, glided down 

To welcome to his soft imprisonment 

The Lord of half the world, so wondrous fair 

Under an awning cool of fluttering silk 

The Lady of that graceful galley sate. 

But not in her instinct the melting form 

Wilh passion, the smooth limbs in dazzling glow 

Translucent through the thin lascivious veil, 

Skilful with careless blandishments to fire 

The loose imaginations, she herein 

Least like that Oriental harlot Queen. 

Of all her shape, of all her soul was pride 

The sustenance, the luxury, the life. 

The innate scorn of her full eye repaid 

With lofty thanklessness the homage fawn'd 

By her fair handmaids, and her oarnpen gay, 

Who seem'd to wanton in iheir servile toil. 

Aroimd she gazed, as in her haughtiness 

She thought that God had form'd this living pomp ■ 

Of woodland, stream, and rock, her height of soul 

To pamper, that to welcome her the earth 

Attired its breathing brightness, and the sun 

Only on her look'd from his azure sphere. 

Knows Samor that bright Lady ? Who knows not 
Amid her twinkling retinue of stars 
The queenly summer moon ? Ye too he knows, 
The minion rowers of her royal state. 
Entitled once by courteous falsehoods bland 
Nobles of Britain, from the general wreck 
Most despicably saved by Saxon scorn. 
Meet vassalage for Vortigern, now shrunk 
And dwindled from proud Britain's sov'reign lord 
To petty Prince of Dyfed.* Ye yet cling 
Even to the hollow semblance of a crown, 
Ye gauzy summer motes, that float and bask 
In the warm noontide of a court, light things 
Of noise and glittering, that to royal ears 
Tinkle your poisonous flatteries, then most proud 
When most obtrusive your gay nothingness. 

Under a rock where Samor lay unseen 
Beneath the sparkling birchen shade, the bark 
Glided so near, the silver-twinkling leaves 
Play'd like a wavering veil o'er the bright face 
And marble neck of that rechning Queen. 

Now, Samor, now 't is at thy thirsty lips 
The cup of vengeance, now quaff deep, quaff deep ! 
Now, by the bones that bleach on Ambri plain. 
By thy lost Emeric's silent chamber bowers, 
By that soft cheek o'er which the primrose blooms, 
Now lanch the unerring javelin! lo, she tempts. 
The Saxon's daughter, and the false King's bride, 
The tame and baffled lingering of revenge. 

And up the Avenger stood ; a ray of light 
Quiver'd the brandish'd javelin; creeping awe 
Froze up the rowers' hearts ; down fell the oars. 
And to the shore round swung the ungovern'd bark. 

But 'mid those feminine and timorous men 
Intrepid that soft lady her fair front 



* Or, Dimetia, i. e. South Wales. 



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293 



Advanced, and, " Who art thou, whose impious arm 
'Gainst royalty's anointed head dare sway 
Irreverent menace ?" — " One whom grinding wrong, 
And injuries savage, blacii, and manifold 
Have almost madden'd to the deep base shame 
Of soiling his bright arms with woman's blood." 
(He cast the javelin from him, and went on) 
" But tell thy sire, Rowena, tell thy lord, 
Britons have yet to learn their codes of war. 
That yet fastidious vengeance will not slake 
But on a worthy victim its deep thirst." 

Then was the mingling of their looks elate, 
As when two falcons, far from this low earth. 
Meet in the sun's broad blaze, they, glad and proud 
Each of their kindred, flap their radiant wings. 

" I know thee now, majestic Rebel! thee 
The untraceable, untameable ! I know 
The chosen Man of Fate! of all our race 
The designated danger ; merciful 
Saxon ne'er coupled with thy name till now. 
Yet think not thou from rivalry aloof 
In proud and lonely excellence to stand, 
For with requital royal and profuse 
I will outsoar thee ; this white woman's hand 
Shall cast thee Hengist's pardon lor thy deeds 
Of guilty fame ; this smooth and purple cheek 
Smile thee fair honours in Caer Merddhyn's court." 

"Pardon, and honour. Lady! one alone 
Jealous prerogative of pardon holds 
O'er Samor's soul, the universal God ! 
Caer Merddhyn's honours! to fall'n Vortigern 
To be install'd prime flatterer, meekly laud 
The bounteous-hearted monarch, who cast off 
His throne, his people, and his fame, and thought 
For bride so fair the dowry all too poor." 

No wrath, but brighter joy the Lady's cheek 
Emblazon'd ; " Why should slight and tinsel ties 
Of blood and birthplace hold asunder hearts 
Kindred in grandeur? thou art brave and free, 
And brave and free is Hengist; why disdains 
Valour to mate with valour, might with might?" 
"Valour beneath the sun goes proudly forth; 
And in the cloudy battle's van affronts 
His hauberk'd foe, but folds not secret steel 
Under the mild and festal robe of peace. 
Nor creeps with midnight stealth on the weak sleep 
Of women and soft infants." — Then appear'd 
Tears in her haughty eyes, tears beautiful. 
For drops of sharpe they were for those black crimes 
That fleck'd and dimm'd her father's blaze of fame. 
Still paused not the Avenger. — " Did my God, 
Did Britain claim the offering, I dare hope 
Yet I could rend from this worn heart away 
Its pleasant lust of vengeance: private wrongs 
Are but thin drops in my full tide of hate; 
But all my country's injuries, all my God's 
Concentrate in the mighty passion flood, 
My life, my soul, my being ; we must be, 
I and thy father, through all space of time, 
Even to the end, Destroyer or Destroy'd." 



-f\ 



" Harsh and Implacable I yet be not thou 
Discourteous: wilt thou to Caer Merddhyn come, 
An honour'd guest, in freedom to depart 
When, vi'here thou wilt, thy pledge my royal faith ?" 

"A Saxon's faith!" burst hitter from his lips. 
He check'd the upbraiding tone. "If fraud and sin 
In such a lovely temple hold their shrine, 
It were not strange did fiends of darkness dwell 
Within yon beauteous sun !" But she with smile 
Mild as May morning on a violet bank, 
" Why stay'st thou ? can the Unconquerable fear — ?" 
" Fear, Lady ! fear and I are strangers now." 
" What wondrous spell," pursued her playful mirth, 
" So steels thee ?" — " One most simple and most strong, 
A calm proud conscience, and a faith in God." 

Then sate he by the Lady's side ; set forth 
Upon its dancing voyage down the tide 
The bark obeisant to its dashing oars. 
But those gay rowers veering with the wind 
Of soft court favour, 'gan with subtle joy 
And cold factitious transport hail again 
Their gentle peer, their old and honour'd friend. 
But with a glance the imperial lady froze 
To silence their smooth-lying lips, nor brook'd 
Idle intrusion on her rapturous feasts 
Deep drank she in the majesty and pomp. 
Wherewith instinct the Avenger moved arid spake. 
And what high beauty from heroic soul 
Emanates on the outward shape, nor pall'd 
On her insatiate appetite the joy ; 
Till that commercing deep of stately thoughts. 
Proud admiration, and intense delight 
In what is heart-subliming, towering, grand. 
Regenerate from the trance that bathed her sense, 
Sprang up a fiery passion, o'er her flow'd 
Secret the intoxicating ecstasy. 
Love, dangerous, deep, intolerable love. 

What beauteous seeming and magnificent, 
Weareth that brilliant sin ? now not o'er her 
Came it in melting languor, soft and bland. 
But like her own high nature, eminent. 
Disdainful, and elate, allied to all 
That beautified, that glorified, and seem'd 
Mysterious union of upsoaring spirits. 
Wedding of lofty thoughts with lofly thoughts, 
And the fine joy of being to this earth 
A thing of wonder: and as floats the air 
Clear, white, and stainless in the highest heavens, 
Seem'd from its exaltation fresh and pure, 
Above all taint her amorous madness rose. 
Had it seem'd love, her very pride had quell'd 
The unplumed fantasy, her inbred scorn 
Warr'd on the young infirmity, but now 
Upon her soul's bold crest it planted high 
Its banner of dominion, and she haifd 
Its coming as a guest of pomp and power. 

But, though o'er all her features mantling spead 
A vivid restlessness, a lustrous glow, 
A deepening purple, though her eye indulged 
Richer delirium, though her languid breath 

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Came with a throb and struggled from her heart, 

Yet in that noble kindness that disdains 

With greedy and suspicious gaze to search 

The sin that may be, rather chastening all 

With his own native purity, serene 

The Warrior sate. The placid gliding bark 

With motion like to stillness, flowing on. 

Where with green diadem of woods above, 

Beneath the white breadth of the expanding stream, 

Caer Merddhyn in the liquid noontide rose.) 

Fair rose Caer Merddhyn, rose her towery height 
The air enriching, nor mis-seem'd a King 
Such stately dwelling; populous her streets, 
And throng'd with human faces, but o'er all 
A lassitude and heavy sadness hung, 
Blankness of looks and weariness of hearts, 
And listlessness of motion faltering on. 
With all the pomps, the luxuries of life. 
It seem'd a city of the dead. The shapes. 
The steps of men were there, but soul and spirit, 
And stirring energy, and vivid mind. 
Passion and earnestness in torpor slept. 
The cold blood stagnates in the drowsy veins. 
Alike all feelings lazy languor seal'd ; 
To still ihem, not delight, the mothers held 
Their infants, as the radiant Queen past on; 
But even in them the laughing spring of joy 
Was dead, and dry, and frozen. — " Oh, high God ! 
(So spake the Wanderer in his secret soul) 
Hath tyranny such bleak and withering power 
Man's heavenly essence to embrute, and thou, 
Once princely V^ortigern, the tyrant thou !" — 

Worse sight ! worse shame ! they reach the broad 
hill's brow, 
Where in its royalty the palace look'd 
Awe on its vassal city ; there, even there. 
On that high threshold, armed Saxon files 
From the weak people fenced the weaker King. 
But through that legion hateful and accurst 
Onv^ard the Avenger that bright Lady's hand 
Led, as the Sibyl sage the Love-queen's son 
Calm through the doleful regions of the dead. 

Within the hall with royal banners hung. 
And shields of royal blazon, royal arms, 
Least royal he, sate Vortigern ; deep thought 
And miserable on his laded brow 
Traced its bleak lines; before him glittering lay 
The crown of Britain, which his eye perused 
With a sick sadness, as each gem were full 
Of woeful ruminations, blank remorse ; 
And as bad Angels loathe, yet upward watch. 
Heaven's Sun, bright type of their once radiant state. 
Even so in bitterness that fallen King, 
Painfully bamjueting on self-reproach, 
A drear remembrance of lost grandeurs drew 
From that fair ring, and cursed its blaze that flash 'd 
Past splendours o'er the darkness of his soul. 
And memory from what height to what depth sunk. 
He welters in the abyss of shame profound. 
Beside him o'er his harp Aneurin bow'd. 
The white-hair'd Bard, sole faithful he, sole friend ; 



For minds of poet| from their own high sphere 

Look down on earth's distinctions, high and low, 

Sunken or soaring, as the equal sun 

Sheds light along the vale and mountain's brow. 

He in the hall of feasting who fast seal'd 

The treasures of his harmony, now pours 

Into the wounded heart his syrups sweet, 

And laps it in the silken folds of sound. 

But even along his strings the infectious grief 

Hath crept, and wither'd up the wantonness 

And lost in wayward wanderings of despair 

Stray the vague tones ; anon bursts full and free 

A start, a swell of pride, then sinks away 

Involuntary to such doleful fall. 

Misery so musical, its languid breath 

Feeds, while it softens the deep-rooted woe. 

Such melodies at tragic midnight heard 

'Mid a deserted city, gliding o'er 

The deep green moss of tower and fane o'erthrown, 

Had seem'd immortal sorrows in the air. 

O'er man's inconstant grandeurs. Sad such wreck, 

More sad, more worthy Angels woe the waste 

And desolation of a noble mind. 

High fertile faculties run wild and rank. 

Bright fiery qualities in darkness slaked. 

That liquid intercourse of giief broke ofl^ 

Thus spake the King — " Who thus unbidden bursts 

On kingly solitude ? why ask I thee ? 

No brow between the Scot and Southern sea 

Beareth such gallant insolence abroad, 

But Samor, the wild Wanderer, the denounced, 

The desperate! Art thou here to stun mine ears 

With " Vortigern is abject, lost, disgraced ?" 

'Tis well that with thee comes my bright excuse, 

My poverty's rich treasure, my night's star. 

Beauteous Rowena." — Joy seem'd his, but yet 

Was effort and was struggle in that joy, 

The clinging of a desperate soul to what 

It would delight in, but did not delight. 

The striving of a barren heart to force 

The perish'd bloom of pleasure. — "King, I come 

To put a spell upon thee, conjure up 

Thy valour from its tomb within thy breast. 

To rend the adamant that trammels fast 

Thy strength of soul. By yon bright glaive that smote. 

By Esk's wild bank, beneath his father's shield. 

The royal Caledonian's Son ; yon flag. 

That, when by foted Aries rash Britain lost 

Her wild bright hazard for imperial state. 

Clouding the car of adverse victory shook 

Untarnish'd in the sun its blazon broad. 

Nor stoop'd though all was fallen ; by yon rich crown 

Whereon when flow'd the holy oil, this isle 

From all her seas her gratulant acclaim 

Sent up, and overcast heaven's vault with joy ; 

By Vortigern, the great, the brave, the wise I" — 

" Brave ! wise ! ay, that it is. The veriest wretch 

That from base birth-place to his baser grave. 

Creeps with his fellow reptiles, that ne'er knew 

What luxury 'tis, what loftiness to soar, 

And with one soul to wield a host of souls 

In free subjection, oh that fireless dust. 

Clay uninform'd that only lives to die, 

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295 



That is to me a God : to me whose curse, 
And brand, and mock it is to have been great — 
And be — oh ! Samor, Samor, I was King, 
King of this spacious, rich, and glorious isle, 
And thou, and such as thou, my regal state 
Didst vassal ; now, but now an eye may trace 
The circuit of my realm, a shepherd's boy 
Count my thin people, like his mountain flock." 

" Oh, Monarch, ill must be atoned by good, 
And to repentant deeds of mightiest fame 
Heaven can upraise the farthest sunken. Power 
Fails not the aspirant will. I knew thee once 
A being of those arduous energies. 
Strong aspirations, graspings undefined. 
Tumultuous thirsts and passions, that of man 
Make Fiend or Angel." — "True, too true, but thou 
Hast seized the Seraph's air-plumed wings, and I 
The Demon's vans of darkness. Had all fallen, 
All perish'd, one wide ignominy swept 
Princes and Lords and People, I had found 
A forlorn comfort in tlie general wreck ; 
But in its curst sublimity thy fame 
Obtrudes its radiant presence, and makes groan 
This ruin of a Monarch." — " Rare it is. 
Oh King, in Fame's rich galaxy to shine 
With steadfast blaze unwiihering, but to dawn 
From darkness, scatter off the black eclipse 
That veils the wither'd lustre, this most rare, 
Maketh man's soul an everlasting fire 
Worthy the God that hung the heavens with light ; 
'T is hard for downcast spirit to o'erleap 
Ruin's sad barriers, but Heaven's angels drop 
Soft dews beneath his burning feet, his flight 
Imp with strong plumes; his coming doth adorn 
The earth he moves on ; till Remorse abash'd 
Before the orient glories fades and flies." 

" Peace ! peace ! thou canst not see what cold within 
Lies like a palsy on the flagging powers. 
Makes me a thin and shrinking reed, the sport 
Of every lazy wind, the shape, the life, 
The woe, without the faculties of man : 
Shame, Shame. — Oh, turn thy lofty brow away, 
Heavy it hangs o'er me like loosen'd crag 
Over the mountain traveller — I endure, 
Of all this nation, the curse-wrinkled lips. 
Out-pointed fingers, ribald jests, coarse scorns. 
Men that have lick'd the dust beneath my feet, 
Worn their tame faces by the mould of mine. 
Them, to confront even them." — Unkingly tears 
Choked the full utterance, met his eye the glance 
Of that proud Queen, who, all unmark'd, drank in 
That passionate discourse, from her contempt. 
Though far below his own, he shrunk, and wrought 
To a brief pride his wan dejected mien. 
" Here is my throne, my kingdom in this breast, 
My diadem the wealth of light that shines 
From yon fair brow upon me." — Stronger pain 
Burst in upon the infant pride : forth fled 
The Monarch, happy could he fly himself 
Him foUow'd that old Bard. 'Tis vain, all vain, 
(Thus spake the high Avenger.) " Beauteous Queen, 
25* 



I claim thy faith, and part." — " So swift, so soon. 
Our festal cheer untasted, welcome cup 
Uncrown'd ?" — " Fair Queen, in the pellucid stream 
My beverage dances ; the coarse mountain boor 
Shares his hard fare with me ; the hand that feasts 
The winged wanderers of the air, feasts me." 
With lips in act of speech apart, the Queen, 
As to her will her tongue disdainful scorn'd 
Allegiance, chain'd in silence stood again. 
Twice she essay'd to speak, twice o'er her shame 
Swept his petrific hand, and rosy fire 
O'er face and neck and forehead flush'd, till shrunk 
From that strong heat the eye, and down on earth 
Settled its close-fringed orb ; with pressure soft 
Her blushing fingers his bronzed hand embraced. 

" Here in this palace is my rule, this land 
Is mine by my prevailing power : wouldst thou 
Of this high seat, this realm be lord ? — Why starts 
Unwonted colour to thy cheek ? why shrinks 
Into its sphere thine eye? Said I this soul. 
And what soft beauty glitters in this shape, 
Had it appall'd thee ?" — Eagerly she grasp'd 
The hand she held, as though from thence to wring 
A swift reply, yet gazed upon the earth. 
As wistful 'neath its darkness she might shrink 
From her own shame. Blank wonder Samor's brow 
To living stone congeal'd — " This then the close 
To all thy lavish love of Vortigern I" 

" My love ! he was a King, upon his brow 
The beauty of a royal crown, his height 
Dominion, like a precious mantle, dipt 
In heaven's pure light array'd, and o'er him flung 
Transcendent grandeur; above all he stood. 
And I by such fond splendours woo'd and won, 
Took seat upon his eminence ; a plant 
To spread, and mantle an imperial throne. 
Not like tame ivy round a ruin creep. 
Or wreathe the tomb of royalty. His pride 
I wedded, not his shame ; bats may not build 
With the light-loving lark. He, he himself 
By self-abasement has divorced me, set 
Distance between us wide and far as heaven 
From the black pit of infamy." — "High Queen, 
What seest thou in this bleak and batter'd brow. 
These rough scathed limbs, this wan and sunken face. 
With misery's rugged furrows deeply plough'd 
To dazzle or delight ? Lone outcast I, 
Friendless, but daily, nightly by fierce foes 
Beset and hunted like a loathsome brute ; 
Thy nation's mothers vent all hate on me, 
Link with a scathing curse no name but mine. 
Oh, what wouldst thou and softness with a life 
Like mine so dreary, desperate, dark, and fierce ?" 

" Oh, 't is because all hate thee, that I love. 
Because all dread thee, I would mate with thee ; 
Thy miseries, thy dangers deeper plunge 
My soul in passion, that alone thou walk'st 
Smote at by every arm, yet struck by none. 
That mastery of thy single soul holds down 
The Sa.xon's mounting empire, clips its wings 

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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Rapacious and wide-shadowing, that ihy fame 

Like a rich rainbow cloud, sails on through air, 

To mortal grasp impalpable, to sight 

In lonely brilliance manliest ; my soul 

To that thy airy chariot would aspire, 

And dazzle by thy side, and daunt the world." — 

" Loose and unrighteous to thy lawful Lord, 
Yet wouldst ihou poison with adulterous shame 
Its spotless lustre, its pure white defile, 
And clog with guilt its vaunted wheels." — "Guilt! 

Guilt! 
Ah, now I know why mine eye shrunk from thine, 
Why sought the base earth, why brook'd not my 

tongue 
The motions of my will — but we — slirink we ? 
The lofty are their own high law; dull codes, 
Cold customs, trammel but the base ; our sins 
Shall be the wanderings of the meteor fire, 
More wonder'd than the regular calm stars : 
Our acting shall ennoble, w hat tame tongues 
Falter at even in word ; opinions, hues 
Shall at our haughty bidding shift and change, 
And what we do, shall therefore be call'd great. 
Yes, yes, I feel thy shrinking hand, I see 
White-lipp'd abhorrence quivering in thy mien 
As at some loathsome viper. Woe, oh woe 
To him that tramples on the viper's wrath." — 
Then shook she back her golden hair, away 
Cast his cold hand. — " Ho, Saxons at the gate. 
Ho, Saxons, to your injured Queen !" The hall 
Sudden was walled with fiery arms and spears 
Bickering fierce menace ; numerous, swift, and strong, 
As when old Cadmus by clear Dirce spread 
That dangerous seed uncouth, long, wide, and bright 
Under the fatal ploughshare leap'd to life. 
To havoc the wild harvest, and shook up 
Its bearded grim fertility of death. 
But then his sword the Avenger grasp'd, and cried, 
"Twice have I trusted Saxon faith, and twice 
Beneath my feet the smooth fair ice hath burst 
Its glassy treachery : once this arm redeem'd 
The infatuate blindness. Saxons, I am he. 
Who with his single strength on Ambri plain 
Scared your hot massacre, your proudest necka 
Strew'd for his pavement of retreat, ye see 
Mine arm unwither'd, my unbroken sword." 

But they sprung onward ; that bright Lady's brow 
Awful delight absorb'd the while, she moved 
Before their wrath, her arm's high sway waved back 
Their fury from her presence. Swift they came, 
Swift they departed ; silence down the walls 
Crept o'er the banners broad, and pendent shields. 

She look'd on Samor, all his pride was hers. 
She look'd on Samor, all that pride was quench'd 
In exquisite mild transport ; at his feet 
The Queen, the haughty, the disdainful fell. 
Her fine fair hair lay floating on the earth ; 
Her round arms clung beseeching to his knees. 

" A curse upon me, that my wilful heart 
'Gainst head so brave, so noble, dream'd of wrath, 



Of danger and rude menace. What I did, 

I know not ; what I said, it pleased not thee ; 

Enough, 't was base, 't was criminal, 't was false. 

Oh Chief! when we would compass wild desires, 

Words alien to the heart start up, yet seem 

Most strong persuasion ; of all serpents, scorn 

Stings to worse frenzy, worst a woman's soul. 

Forget, all, all forget, but one soft word. 

And that I charge thee, by thy rescued hfe. 

Forget not." — " Lady, were I rich in love. 

As yon full Sun in light, I could not spare 

A beam upon a Saxon. Now, but now 

The fountains of my heart are dry, the stock 

Where fresh and rich my green aflTections bloom'd. 

Is vvither'd to the root; hard, doleful, dead, 

My breast's impassive iron scatters off 

All melting blandishments, all soft delights. 

As the waved banner the thin morning dews. 

With one harsh discord to consummate all; 

Thou art thy Father's daughter." — She arose 

In miserable calmness resolute. 

She took his hand, she led him forth, beneath 

The murky scowling of those Saxons stern, 

Whose angry wonder scarce herself controll'd : 

Gave one fond lingering pressure, and but one, 

Then watch'd him through the city, up the vale, 

If gazing with such emptiness of eye 

Were watching, which his distance seem'd to freezol 

Gradual to hoUower wanness; down her arms 

Hung, only that she stood and faintly breathed. 

Pulse, motion, sense, life, all seem'd fled with him 



I 



Sudden above her, the mild air 'gan waft 
Wild fiery sounds, like those of battle mom 
Which champing war-steed's neigh, and lance's rush, 
Impatient answers. On the palace top 
Aneurin in his bardic glory stood ; 
The sunlight on his old prophetic brow 
Flash'd strong, yet dazzled not,- his long white locks 
Stream'd back upon his azure robe, like rack 
O'er heaven's unclouded blue, his pale thin hand 
With strength of mounting phrenzy lanch'd abroad 
The war-song of Cassivelan : glad sounds 
To that tranced queen, ibr Samor's hastier port 
Deliberate grandeur slacken'd, he look'd back. 
Proud gratitude for that wild flattery.—" All, 
All in one wide conspiracy (so spake 
Rowena's bitter joy), thee, only thee 
To glorify. Oh, were man mute, this earth 
Would leap to utterance of thy fame, the winds 
Find voices eloquent, the streams, the stones. 
To lofty music burst of thy renown." 

Slowly retired the Queen ; she call'd around 
Her slaves, her handmaids ; arrogant their looks 
Seem'd to confront her, eyes aye wont to shrink 
Before her gaze, now seem'd to pry and pierce 
Her deepest soul's recesses; and she blush 'd 
Even in her plenitude of scorn. They stood 
Trembling before her wayward mood, yet seem'd 
Mockeries their tremors; solitude she sought, 
Yet solitude found none, things senseless took 
Stern cognizance of all her acts, her thoughts ! 

306 



SAMOR. 



297 



Eyes hung the empty walls, weak laughing sounds 
Of triumph o'er her shame, pervaded wide 
The tranquil air, all with herself at league 
Shook scorns upon herself Dim evening falls 
O'er earth and sky, slow flits the shadowy night. 
"Slaves there!" she cried, " my steed ! alone I ride." 
She, wont to find her every look a law, 
Now almost wonders all so swift obey. 

The moon's white sickle tenderly array 'd 
With dubious lustre the grey heavens; scarce tinged 
The dew-webs, whiten'd not the yellow crown 
Of the unwaving forest ; ignorant. 
Or with feign'd ignorance 'gulling even herself, 
Long upon Samor's track the Lady rides. 

'Tis not a stag that couches on the heath ; 
Hope on her dim check brightens, from her steed 
Soft she dismounts, she ruffles not the fern, 
The moss springs printless up beneath her feet, 
So light her gliding to that slumbering man. 
She knows him, she starts back. — "Oh, came I here. 
Lost and abased, him, only him to seek. 
That ansv^-ers mine immodest heart with flight, 
With scorn, perchance with hate ! yet wonderous he, 
Wonderous in rest as action ! Sleep'st thou calm. 
While numberless as these brown heath-spikes rise 
Legions of spears around thee, for thy blood 
Leagued in one furious thirst? Unwise and rash! 
To-night thou slumber'st not unguarded, sleep; 
And if Rowena mingle with thy dreams. 
Sleep calmly, breathingly as now! He wakes — 
Oh, hateful even in slumber that harsh name 
Grates on his sense." — His eyes unfold, nor start. 
So soft the vision ; wonder's self is calm, 
And quaffs it in with mild unshrinking gaze. 
Her long bright hair, like threads of silver streak 
The moonlight, her fair forehead's marble arch 
W^ild joyous fearfulness, ecstatic doubt, 
Bathe with the dewiness of melting snow. 
Ere yet unblanch'd its stainless glitter pure. 
Oh, soft and slow that melody of mien 
Steals o'er the slumberer, ere the reason woke, 
The sense was drunken, one hand folded hers 
That answer'd not its pressure, nor withdrew, 
Tremulous, yet motionless : his rising head 
Found on her otiier arm such pillowing soft, 
A the fond ringdove on its mate's smooth down. 
They spake not, moved not. 'Tis the noon of night. 
Hour known to Samor not by sign or sound 
Of man's wise art to mark the fleeting time. 
Nor changing of the starry heavens ; but e'er 
By motion of the secret soul, by calm 
■ Habitual sliding into the soothed heart, 
Distinct from turbulent day and weary eve, 
Emeric's own hour, her consecrated spot 
In his life's wilderness. She comes, she comes. 
The clouds have dropt her from their silvery folds; 
The mild air wafts her, the rank earth impure 
Stainless she skims, distrust, doubt, fear, no place 
Find in the sinless candour of her mien. 
In languid soft security slie melts 
On Suraor's fever'd soul, she fills his sense, 



Her softness like the nightingale's first notes 

After rude evening, o'er his passion steals : 

He cast not off Rowena's hand, it fell 

As from a dead man's grasp; slow rose his head 

From its fair zone, as from a bank of snow 

The winter traveller, by its smoothness guiled 

Almost to deathful sleep; he dares not now 

Welcome that heavenly visitant, nor could, 

Nor would he her mild rescue bid depart. 

Nor dares he now with chill abhorrence shrink 

From that impassion 'd Lady ; on his lips 

Clung wretched, pale, beseechingness, that framed 

Nor word nor sound. But time for thought in her 

Gave time for shame, for struggling pride gave time. 

" Thou deem'st me loose, wild, wanton, deem'st me 

come 
To lure thee with light sweets of lawless love, 
Huntmg mine own shame through the midnight 

woods. 
Oh false, all false. — How thee shall I persuade. 
Ay me! that scarce persuade myself, 'twas chance, 
'T was fate, 't was ministration of bad spirits. 
That led me thoughtless, hopeless — did I say 
Hopeless ? yet scorn not thou, the lightest won 
Are oft best won. Oh why, ere now so mild. 
So gentle, why so stern, so ghastly still ?" 
" Thou lovest my pride, ray honour, my renowTi ; 
Now, Queen Rowena, maysi thou do a deed 
Shall make my pride thine own, make thee my fount 
Of honour, all my noontide of renown 
On thee in all its golden brilliance shine ; 
And if henceforth man's voice cry out. High deeds 
Hath Samor's arm achieved, thy heart shall bound 
And thy lips answer, ' Mine! all mine!' and I 
Will bless thee, thank thee, praise thee for that truth." 

O'er proud Rowena past his solemn voice 
Tremendously delightful, as the sound 
Of thunder over Jove's bolt-minist'ring bird, 
That sternly rocks on th' agitated air. 
'• Speak, speak ; 'tis hours, 't is years until 'tis done." 
Return 'd one brief one powerful word — " Depart." 
She struggled yet to wear the lofty light 
TKat flush'd her brow ; she struggled, and she fell 
Her white arms round his neck. Light as the breeze 
Pass'd over his her cheek. Then back 
She started, seized her courser's rein ; far, far 
The rocks gave answer to its trampling hoofs. 

To sohtude, to peace, ah, not to peace ! 
Was Samor left ; large dewy beads distil 
From his full brow, as from the forest leaves 
The sunny icicle : fierce, merciless. 
Relentless inquest o'er himself he holds, 
In him a sin in thought is sin in deed. 

" And I, that on the frantic waxen wings 
Of mine own arrogance, have deem'd my soul 
Kindred and heritor of that rich bliss 
That bathes the Angels' radiant wings in strength; 
That wander'd o'er this sublunary wild 
As with a chartered scorn, that mix'd with men 
But in disdainful mastery to o'er-rule 

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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Their dim and wavering destinies, that took 

With noble violence admiring earth, 

O'er me hath passion wound her silken nets ; 

And that soft Dalila, lascivious sin, 

Shorn my full honours. Now, who clothed my steps 

With darkness, dread, and danger, hung my arms 

With lightning, kept at bay the envious death 

That feasts upon the famous of mankind ; 

God, God abandons me. So farewell pride, 

And with pride farewell strength, the burning hope, 

Glad agonies, brave bliss of holy war, 

Transports of trampling on my countr}''s foes, 

And all the beauty, majesty, renown, 

\'engeance, of thy triumphal state. Ye too, 

Farewell, soft midnights, delicate regards 

Fix'd on me from fond eyes yet bright from heaven, 

Mild agitations of the purer sense. 

Fresh bloomings of my faded joys, ye dreams 

Lovelier than actual bliss, as heaven than earth, 

Emeric abandons me. For how can snow 

Drop on his foul earth stainless ? how canst thou 

Visit unsullied thy sad shrine defiled, 

Or beam upon this lust-benighted heart ? 

Oh never li^U. before, the fear to front 

Mine own past life, the ignoble shame that burns 

At human sight, and memory that ne'er sleeps ; 

Heart-sickening at its own deformities, 

A miserable welcome bid I ye ; 

Come, dismal comforters, faint-footed guides. 

Teach me the hate of life, the dread of death." 

And Samor wander'd on, not now with scope 
Resolved, and steady purpose that absorb'd 
And fix'd on one stern centre all his soul. 
True as the arrow to its mark. Now where. 
Whither, is all indifferent; he pursues 
The wildering of the forest track, the brook 
Winding its lucid error : two sad days 
And chance hath led him back to Wye's green bank. 

Sudden before him swept in gallant pack. 
Fleet hounds, whosekeen scent quaff'd the morning 

dews. 
Sole on their track a noble himlsman bow'd 
O'er his steed's high-curved neck. But when he saw 
Samor, that scarce his coming mark'd or heard 
He vaulted from his uncheck'd steed so fleet. 
The courser seem'd to feel it not, but on 
Went stately bounding down the glen. But he 
Unslung his bugle horn, his hunting-spear 
Cast to the winds, and held his burnish'd sword 
To heaven, as though to paragon its light. 

" Oh, thunderer Thor, but one bold prayer of mine 
E'er scaled thy heavens, and that, munificent, 
I thank thee for thy granting. Samor now. 
Now Christian, now baptized in German blood. 
Avenger, we are met, and ere we part, 
Earth must be ruddier with some blood of ours." 

" Noble Argantyr, deem not thou unknown 
Thy name, thy presence, nor forgot, how thou. 
When Murther quaff'd his glut on Ambri plain. 
Didst hold thy jealous steel aloft, lest stain 



From gore by treason shed, should dim its gleam; 

And when I burst my iron toils, and won 

My dangerous safety, how indignant joy 

Stood bathing thy stern brow. Brave Anglian, thou. 

But thou, of German race, to faint sloth chill'st 

My sword's quick wrath." — " What, Samor out of love 

With strife, with music of conflicting steel ? 

Hath Abisa's pale blood so quench'd his fire? 

Were 't not I now could force my glorious will. 

Yea, I could sue thee, Briton, for the joy. 

Thou wilt not credit, air hath been defiled 

With creeping whispers cold, that I, 1 shrunk 

To second in his dangers that brave boy. 

As though Argantyr would partake a foe. 

And with division spiritless and base. 

Mete out his province in one man to slay, 

Hear; ' Well the famous Anglian won his half 

Of that great conquest!' But I have thee now 

Whole, undivided, now, or man, or more. 

If aught be mortal in thee, guard that spot. 

My steel will search it." — "Samor is not now 

As Samor was, but knows not yet to scorn 

Such brave allurements." Forth his anlace flash'd. 

But not as wont, uplooks he to the sky ; 

He thinks not now, oh, if I fall, float near, 

My Emeric, that no Angel's voice but thine 

Welcome thy Samor to his opening heaven : 

And if I vanquish, Britain and the Lord 

Take to your hecatomb one Saxon more. 

But on Argantyr sprung, as wanton boy 
To the cool health of summer streamlet pure : 
Around, above, beneath his winged sword 
Leaps in its fiery joy, red, fierce and far 
As from a midnight furnace start the sparks. 
As brazen statue on proud palace top. 
Shakes off the pelting tempest, so endured 
Samor, but not in patient hope austere 
Of victory; but habitual skill and power 
Protracting long the cold indifferent strife ; 
Till twice that sword that in its downward sweep 
Flash 'd the white sunlight, cloudy rose and dim 
With ominous purple: then his nature burst 
Its languid bonds, not front alone to front; 
But soul to soul the riot of the fight 
They mingle, like to giddy chariot wheels 
The whirling of their swords, as fierce the din 
Of buckler brast, helm riven, and breastplate cloven, 
As when the polar wind the ice-field rends. 
Such nobleness sublime of hideous fight 
From Ilion's towers her floating mantled dames 
Saw not; nor Thebes, when Capaneus call'd down 
Jove's thunder, and disdain'd its fall; nor pride 
Of later Bards, when mad Orlando met 
On that frail bridge the giant Sarzan king, 
.And with him in the boiling flood dash'd down. 
Till that fond eagerness, that brave delight 
O'erpower'd frail nature, breathless each, and each 
Careless, yet conscious of deep trenching wounds. 
For admiration paused, for hope, for power 
To satiate the unwearying strong desire. 

Lo, the far hills Argantyr first descried 
Radiant with spearmen, and he cried, " Away, 
308 



SAMOR. 



299 



T is Hengist with his bloody bands, I know 
The motion of his crest ; brave Chief, away." — 
" Away ! and leave Argantyr here to boast 
Samor hath fled him!" — "Oh, we meet again,* 
Thou art a quarry for the Gods, base lance 
Must ne'er vaunt blood of thine. Argantyr spares 
But for himself such noble game. Still here ! 
Froward and furious, if thou needst must die. 
Why so must I ; fell Hengist will not spare 
An inch of quivering life on all thy limbs. 
And I with such a jealous lust pursue 
A noble conquest o'er thee, I must shield 
Thy life with mine, for my peculiar fame; 
Freely mine own death on the hazard cast 
For such a precious stake as slaying thee." 

As through dusk twilight stolen, love-breathless 
maid 
For interchange of gentle vows, b)' noise 
Startled of envious footstep, chides away 
Her lingering youth, yet for his Imgering loves, 
Till her fond force hath driven him from her side ; 
So earnest the brave Anglian sued to flight 
Reluctant Samor; o'er his sword-hilt bow'd. 
Stood sorrowing for the wounds himself had made, 
, That marr'd his speedier flight. Anon approach'd 
Hengist, encircled by his slate of spears. 
And bright Rowena by his side. " But now 
Thy steed along our camp rush'd masterless. 
Therefore we seek thee, Anglian. How ! thou 

bleedst! 
And strange ! thy foeman bites not the red earth. 
What might hath scathless met Argantyr's steel ?" 

" He, gasp'd he here in death, thy soul would dance, 
The Wanderer!" — "He! he wars but on soft boys, 

, He dares not front Argantyr." — " False, 't is false !" 
Burst from Rowena ; " he dares deeds our Gods 
Had shrunk from (Hengist's cloudy brow she mark'd), 
Or whence his proud claim to my father's hate ?" 
"Where hath the Recreant fled ! Pursue, pursue !" 
Cried Hengist. " Hast thou wings to cleave the air ? 

! Or windest the deep bosom of the earth, 

i Thou mayst o'ertake. Yet Samor is not now," 
He said, " as Samor was; were Samor more, 

^ Earth and Argantyr had been wed erenow." 

I So spake the Anglian ; leap'd Rowena's heart 
1 In hope, in shame, in anguish, in delight. 
"Oh, hath my softness sunk so deep to change 
Thy steadfast nature, yet thus changed, thy might 
Wrests honour from thy foeman's lips." — "Oh now," 
Laughing in baffled bitterness, exclaim'd 
The Saxon King, " now weave we softer nets 
To toil this dangerous Wanderer. What say'st thou, 
Fair-eyed Rowena, now thou hast cast off 
Thy fond, thy lovesick Vortigern ? perchance 
The sunshine of thy beauty might melt down 
This savage to a tame submissive slave." 

Rowena, whose proud look with beauteous awe 
Smote her beholders, wore her loveliness 
As though she gloried in its power ; now close 
Crowded o'er all her face her mantle's folds, 

2N 



That ill conceal'd the purple fire within. 
Then forward past they to the Saxon camp. 

But far by Wye's green marge had Samor fled. 
Till now the ebbing blood with short quick throb 
Beat at his heart, his languid feet were clogg'd 
With the thick forest leaves, the keen air search'd 
With a cold thrill his wounds. He falls, scarce sobs; 
"Merciful God, on this in all my life 
The sole, the single day I would not die." 
Then faint, and sickly, an oppressive rest 
Seal'd sight and sense. When sleep fell on him, eve 
Was gathering fast, but when he woke, morn shot 
From the grey east her faint pellucid light 
His blood was staunch'd, a soothing coolness lay 
On his mild wounds, the rude arch of the boughs 
Seem'd woven with officious care to veil 
The bright Sini from his eyelids ; the dry leaves 
Were gather'd round him, like a feathery couch. 
He lay and lisien'd, a soft step approach'd 
Light as the wren along the unshaking spray, 
And o'er him lean'd a maiden pale, yet blithe 
With tinge of joy, that settled hue. — " Is 't thou, 
Gentle Myfanwy?" "Blessings on thy waking; 
I long'd to tell thee what sweet dreams have soothed 
My sorrow since we parted ; in my sleep 
My parents came, and with them that fond youth, 
And they smiled on him kindly. Think'st thou God 
Can have such mercy on sins dark as mine !" 
" God's plenteous mercy on thee for thy care 
Of me, sweet maiden." — " Pardon me, oh thou. 
Heaven pardon me, when first I saw thee cold, 
Helpless, and bleeding, evil thoughts arose 
01' my poor Abisa's untimely death." 

But deeper meditation Samor's mind 
Beset. "Almighty, truly thou ordain'st 
Wisdom I'rom baby lips ; what moral high 
Breathes in this simple maid's light-hearted smiles! 
And I, for wisdom famed, for pride of mind, 
Insulted with weak doubts thy infinite, 
Illimitable goodness; she so soft. 
So delicate, so sinful and so sad. 
Springs on her airy plumes of hope to thee. 
Oh, were mine guilt of act not thought, the stain 
Thy fount of living mercy might efTace." 
He prest a kiss upon her cheek so pure 
Even Abisa had granted it. " Farewell, 
My kind preserver, cherish thou thy hope. 
As 't were an infant fondling on thy breast." 
And fresh with hope, like gay stag newly bathed. 
Forth on his voyage lone the Avenger past. 



BOOK VIII. 



His path is 'mid the Cambrian mountains wild ; 
The many fountains that well wandering down 
Plinlimmon's huge round side their murmurs smooth 
Float round him ; Idris, that like warrior old 
His batter'd and fantastic helmet rears, 
Scattering the elements' wrath, frowns o'er his way 
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A broad irregular duskiness. Aloof 
Snowdon, the triple-headed giant, soars, 
Clouds rolling half-way down his rugged sides. 

Slow as he trod amid their dizzy heights, 
Their silences and dimly mingling sounds, 
Rushing of torrents, roar of prison'd winds ; 
O'er all his wounded soul flow'd strength, and pride, 
And hardihood; again his front soar'd up 
To commerce with the skies, and frank and bold 
His majesty of step his rugged path 
Imprinted. So in old poetic faith 
Hyperion from his native Dalian bowers, 
'Mid the rich music of those sisters nine, 
Walk'd the bright heights of Helicon, and shook 
His forehead's clustering glories wide, and flush'd 
The smoothness of his fair immortal face 
With purpleGodhead. Whence, ye mountains, whence 
The spirit that within your secret caves 
Holds kindred with man's soul ? Is 't that your pomp 
Of exaltation, your atirial crowns 
In their heaven-scaling rivalry cast forth 
Bold sympathies of loftiness, and acorn 
Contagious? or in that your purer air, 
Where fresh and virgin from its golden fount. 
Lies the fine light at morning, or at eve 
Melts upward and resolves itself from earth, 
And with ils last clear trembling round ye clings : 
The soul, unwound its coarse material chains, 
Basks in its own divinity, and feels 
There in the verge and portal of the heavens 
The neighbourhood of brighter worlds unseen ? 
Where the blue Glasslyn hurries her fleet course 
To wanton on the yellow level sands. 
On either side in sheer ascent abrupt 
The rocks, like barriers that in elder time 
Wall'd the huge cities of the Anakim, 
Upblacken to the sky, whose tender blue 
With mild relief salutes th' o'erlabour'd sight. 
There on the scanty slippery way, that winds 
With the stream's windings, Samor loiters on. 
But who art thou, that in the Avenger's path 
Standest in dark serenity? what joy 
Instinct amid thy thick black locks reveals 
The full voluptuous quietude within ? 
Oh, Prophet! in thy wanderings wide and far 
Amid the pregnant hours of future time. 
Haply the form of Samor, disarray'd 
Calamity's sad vesture, hath appear'd 
In plenitude of glory. Hence thine eye 
With recognition glad and bright salutes 
The Man of Fate. To earth the Prophet old 
Bow'd down, then look'd he on the waters dark. 
Then upward to the mountains. " Stony earth, 
Within thy secret bosom feel'st not thou 
A wonderous presence? dwells not, thou blue stream, 
Under thy depth of waves a silent awe ? — 
Yea, Snowdon, lift thou up in sternest pride 
Thy cloudy mantled brow ; ye know him all. 
Ye know the Avenger." — " Merlin, mock not thou 
Thy fellow-creature of the dust, the child 
Of sin and sorrow, with o'erlabour'd phrase. 
Abasing the immortal elements 



From their high calm indifference to sense 

Of our light motions. Simple truth severe 

Best seemeth aged lips ; oh, holy famed 

And sage, how ill strong Wisdom's voice melts down 

To the faint chime of flattery." — " Poor of pride ! 

Feeble of hope ! thou seest thyself forlorn, 

An hunted wanderer in thy native land. 

I see thee clad in victory and revenge. 

Thy glory sailing wide on all the winds. 

Beautiful with thy blessings at thy feet 

Thy own fair Britain, Fate so freely spreads. 

Her music volume for my sight." — "Oh, blind. 

And ignorant as blind our insect race! 

The mole would count the sunbeams, the blind worm 

Search the hid jewels in the depths of earth. 

And man, dim dreamer, would invade the heavens. 

Self-seated in the Almighty's councils, read 

The secrets of Omniscience, yea, with gaze 

Familiar scrutinize the Inscrutable. 

I tell thee. Merlin, that the soul of man 

Is destiny on earth ! God gave us limbs 

To execute, and intellect to will 

Or good or evil, and his unseen Spirit 

Our appetites of holiness, else faint 

And wavering, doth corroborate: hence man's prides, . 

Man's glories, and man's virtues all are God's. 

If yet this heart unw-earied may bear on. 

Nor from its holy purpose faintly swerve. 

The Lord be praised, its fate is pride and joy. 

But if, and oh the peril ! it play false 

Its country's lofty hazard, shall it shift 

On wayward destiny its sloth and sin ? 

Evil is not, where man no evil wills. 

And good is not, where will not man and God." 

" Chief wise as brave, as to our feeble sight 
Yon pebble's slight circumference, the Past, 
The Present, and the future of this world 
Are to the All-seeing vision; oft doth Heaven 
In sign and symbol duskily reveal 
The unborn future ; oft Fate's chariot wheels 
Are harbinger'd by voices that proclaim 
The fashion of their coming ; gifted Seers 
Feel on their lips articulate the deeds 
Of later days, and dim oracular sights 
Crowd the weak eyes, till pall'd attention faint 
To dizziness." — " Oh, Merlin, time hath been 
When in the guilty cities the Lord's voice 
Hath spoken by his Prophets, hath made quail 
By apparitions ominous and dire 
Strong empires on their unassailed height. 
But oh, for us of this devoted isle, 
Drench'd with the vials of Almighty wrath. 
To gaze up, and beseech the clouds to rain 
Bright miracles on this poor speck of earth." 

" Shame choke thy speech, despondent slanderer! 
thee 
Avenger! this from thee! Away! my lips 
Burn with the fire of heaven, my heart flows o'er 
With gladness and with glory. Peerless Isle, 
How dost thou sit amid thy blue domain \ 

Of ocean like a sceptred Queen ! The bonds 

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301 



Like flax have wither'd from thy comely limbs. 
Thou, the strong freedom of thy untamed locks 
Shaking abroad, adornest God's fair world. 
Thou noblest Eden of man's fallen slate, 
Apart and sever'd from the common earth, 
Even like a precious jewel, deep and far 
In the abyss of time thy dawn of pride 
Still with a fidler and more constant blaze 
Grows to its broad meridian, and Time's rolls 
Are silent of thy setting. Oh, how fair 
The steps of freemen in thy vales of peace ; 
Thy broad towns teem with wealth, thy yellow fields 
Laugh in their full fertility ; thy bays 
Whiten and glisten with thy myriad barks. 
The Angels love thee, and the airs of heaven 
Are gladden'd by thy holy hymns ; while Faith 
Sits on thy altars, like a nestling dove, 
' In unattainted snowiness of plume." 

" Now, by my soul, thou strange and solemn Man, 
Mistrust thee more I dare not ; be 't a dream 
Or revelation of immortal truth. 
Of Britain's fame I cannot choose but hear 
Wilh a child's transport." — Then the Prophet shook 
The dark profusion of his swelling hair 
With a stern triumph; then his aged eye 
Grew restless with delight: his thin white hand 
Closing around the Baron's arm, lay there 
Like a hard glove of steel. He led him on. 
Till now the black and shaggy pass spread out 
To a green quiet valley, after named 
The Bed of Gelert, that too-faithful hound 
Slain fondly by his erring Lord : the stream 
Here curl'd more wanton, lightly wafting down 
The last thin golden leaves the alders dropt, 
Like fairy barges skimming the blue waves. 
That stream o'erpass'd, rightward their silent way 
Lay to the foot of Snowdon. Pause was none, 
They front the steep ascent, and upward wind 
A long, sheer, toilsome path, their footfalls struck 
Upon the black bare stillness, audible 
As in thick forest the lone woodman's axe. 
'T was strange, yet slack'd not that old reverend Man 
His upward step, as though the mountain air 
Were his peculiar element, still his breath 
Respired unlabouring, lively bounded on 
His limbs, late slow and tremulous. Three long hours 
Now front to front upon that topmost peak, 
Ervvydfa, sit they motionless, alone : 
As when two vultures on some broken tower, 
That beetles o'er a dismal battle-field. 
In dark and greedy patience ruminate 
Their evening feast ; a stillness as of sleep 
Heaves in their ruffled plumes, their deep bright eyes 
Half closed in languid rest; so undisturb'd, 
So lofty, sate the Avenger and the Seer. 
The atmosphere, that palls our restless world. 
Lay coiling in its murky folds below : 
So in some regal theatre, when droops 
The unfolding curtain, and within it shrouds 
The high disastrous passions, crimes, and woes 
Ere while that fretted on its pomp of scene ; 
Thus Earth, with all its solemn tragedies, 



Heroic vauntings, sumptuous imagings. 

Set in its veil of darkness from their sight. 

The filmless, the pellucid heaven above 

One broad pure sheet of sunlight. — " Gifted Man, 

(Cried Samor,) wherefore to this desolate 

Untrodden!" — "Ha! untrodden! know ye not, 

Where coarse humanity defiles not, there 

The snowy-footed Angels lightly skim 

The taintless soil, the fragrance of their plumes 

Fans the pure air where chokes no breath of sin 

The limpid current ? Desolate ! the motes 

That flicker in the sun are few and rare 

To the immortal faces that smile down 

Exquisite transport on the ravish'd sense. 

Here, from their kindred elements, emanate 

The festive creatures of the heavenly fields, 

Glories, and Mercies, and Beatitudes 

Some dropping on the silent summer dews. 

Some trembling on the rainbow's violet verge, 

Some rarely charioteering on the wings 

Of the mild winds, in moonlight some. Why shakes 

The Man of Vengeance ? wherefore of mine hand 

This passionate wringing?" — "Tell me, truly tell; 

The name of Emeric from some mild-lipp'd tone 

Hath it e'er trembled on thine ear? Old Man, 

Is 't sin to say her presence might adorn 

That gentle company ?" — "To souls like thine. 

Warrior, Heaven grants sweet intercourse and free 

With its beatified." — " Ah ! now thou rakest 

The ashes of a buried grief; gone all. 

My gentle visitations broken off, 

My delicate discoursings silent, ceased ! 

Oh, I talk idly. Prophet, speak thou on." 

" Ay, Warrior, and of mild and soft no more; 
Grandeurs there are, to which the gates of heaven 
Set wide their burnish'd portals : midnight feels 
Cherubic splendours ranging her dun gloom. 
The tempests are ennobled by the state 
Of high seraphic motion. I have seen, 
I, Merlin, have beheld. It stood in light. 
It spake in sounds for earth's gross winds too pure. 
Between the midnight and the morn 't was here 
I lay, I know not if I slept or woke. 
Yet mine eyes saw. Long, long this heart had 

yearn 'd, 
'Mid those rich passings and majestic shows 
For shape distinct, and palpable clear sound. 
It burst at length, yea, front to front it stood. 
The immortal Presence. I clench'd up the dust 
In the agony and rapture of my fear. 
And my soul wept with terror and deep joy. 
It stood upon the winds, an Angel plumed. 
And mail'd and crovvn'd ; his plumes cast forth a tinge 
Like blood on th' air around : his arms, in shape 
Ethcrial panoply complete, in hue 
The moonlight on the dark Llanberis lake, 
A bright blue rippling glitter; for the crown, 
Palm leaves of orient light his brow enwreathed. 
That bloom'd in fair divinity of wrath. 
And beautiful relentlessness austere. 
Knowledge was in my heart, and on my lips ; 
I felt him, who he was. — " Archangel ! hail, 

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Destroyer! art not thou God's Delegate, 

To break the glassy glories of this world ? 

The gem-knosp'd diadem, the ivory ball, 

Sceptre and sword, imperial mantle broad, 

The Lord of Nations, Thundershaft of war, 

Are glorious on the pale submissive earth: 

Thou comest, and lo, for throne, for sword, for king, 

Bare ashes and thin dust. Thou art, that aye 

The rich-tovver'd cities smoulder'st to pale heaps 

Of lazy moss-stones, and aye after thee 

Iloot-s Desolation, like a dank-wing'd owl 

Upon the marble palaces of Kings. 

Thou v\-ert. when old Assyrian Nineveh 

Sank to a pool of waters, waste and foul ; 

Thou, when the Median's brow the massy tiar 

Let fall, and when the Grecian's brazen throne 

Sever'd and split to the four winds ; and now 

Consummatest thy work of wreck and scorn. 

Even on Rome's Caesars, making the earth sick 

Of its own hoUowness. Archangel ! Hail, 

Vicegerent of destruction ! Cupbearer, 

That pour'st the bitter liquor of Heaven's wrath, 

A lamentable homage pay I thee. 

And sue thee tell if Britain's days are full. 

Her lips for thy sad beverage ripe. Thereat 

Earthward his sunny spear its lurid point 

Declined, and lo, a White Horse, through the land 

Ranging in stately speed ; our city gates 

Shrunk open at his coming, our fair fields 

Wither'd before him, so his fiery breath 

Flared broad amazement through the gasping land. 

Triumph was in the trampling of his feet. 

And the strong joy of mockery, for he trod 

On broken principalities ; his mane 

Familiar Conquest, as a rushing wind, 

Fann'd in loose brilliant streamings." — " False-lipp'd 

Seer, 
Thou spakest of gladness, and thy ominous tone 
Is darkness and dismay." — " Hark, Warrior, hark : 
That wanton mane was trail'd down to the dust, 
That fiery trampling falter'd to dull dread. 
That pale victorious steed Thee, Thee I saw, 
Visible as thou stand'st, with mastering arm 
Drag down, and on his strong and baffled neck 
Full trod thy iron-sandal'd heel. The sight 
Was wine unto my soul, and I laugh'd out. 
And mock'd the ruinous Seraph in the clouds. 

" Yet stood he in the quiet of his wrath, 
Angelic Expectation, that awaits 
Calmly till God accomplish God's high will. 
Full on his brow. Then stoop'd the spear again. 
And lo. Seven Steeds, like that pale One, bestrode 
The patient Isle, and they that on them rode 
Wore diadem and regal pall ; then rose 
To war against those royal riders fierce. 
From a round table, Knights in sunlike arms. 
Shields bossy with rich impress quaint, and fair 
Their coursers, as the fire-hoof'd steeds of Morn. 
To while-arm'd Ladies in a stately court 
Bards hymn'd the deeds of that fine chivalry, 
And their crown'd Captain's title smote mine ear, 
'Arthur of Bretagne.' — Years went rolling on, 



Cloudy, discordant, and tempestuous years, 

For the sword reap'd the harvest of the land, 

And battle was the may-game of her sons. 

And lo, a Raven o'er the B^astern sea 

Swoop'd desolation on the Isle ; her wings 

Blasted where'er they waved, the earth wept blood 

In her foul talons' gripe. But he that rode 

On the White Steed, the Sovereign of the Land 

(Patience, Avenger, patience !), fair was he 

That Sovereign, as the virgin's spring-tide dream. 

Holy as new-anointed Christian Priest, 

Valiant as warrior burnish'd for the fight. 

Fond and ecstatic as love-dreaming Bard, 

Solemn and wise as old Philosopher, 

Stately as king-born lion in the wood ; 

As he his fine face heavenward turn'd in prayer, 

The Angels bent down from their throning clouds. 

To wonder at that admirable King, 

Sky-wandering voices peal'd in transport out — 

'Alfred!' the baffled Raven cower'd aloof, 

The isle look'd up to heaven in peace and joy. 

" Still stood he there, betwixt me and the sun, 
Th' Archangel ; not in sleep, nor senselessness 
Absorb'd, but terrible inaction spread 
Over his innate menace. Oh, I strove, 
Yet dared not hope the dregs of wrath were drain'd. 
The mission of dismay fulfill'd and done; 
Yet had those wings of fatal hue droop'd down 
In folded motionlessness, wreathy light 
Had crept and wound around that dusky spear, 
Slivering its perilous darkness. Dropt at once 
That tender light away; at once those wings 
Started asunder, and spread wide and red 
The rain of desolation, thicker roll'd 
The pedestal of clouds whereon he stood, 
As to bear up the effort of his wrath. 
Again the Eastern Raven snufT'd our air. 
The frantic White Horse laved his hoofs in blood, 
Till from the Southern Continent sprung forth 
A Leopard, on the ocean shore he ramp'd. 
Woe to the White Horse, to the Raven woe, 
Woe for the title of the Leopard Lord, 
The Conqueror! and a Bell I heard, that sway'd 
Along the isle, and froze it into peace 
With its majestic tyranny of sound. 

" But he, upon the air, th' Archangel, he. 
The summons of whose eye from climes remote 
Beckon'd those grisly ministers of wrath. 
Northward he look'd, no northern ruin came. 
To th'East, there all was still. The South, nor shape 
Nor sound. The West, calm stretch'd th' unruffled sea. 
Ha! thought I, earth hath now no ruin more. 
The race of havoc is extinct for us : 
Angel of wreck, away ! thy task is o'er ; 
Majestic Mischief, from our isle away ! 
He went not; as an earthquake's second shock. 
With dreary longing watch'd I what might come ; 
Moments were years ; and lo, the Island's sons 
Nor Briton they, nor Saxon, nor the stock 
Of those new-comers, but from each had flow'd 
All qualities of honour and renown, 

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303 



The foul dishonest dregs had fumed away. 
And the rich quintessence, unmix'd, unsoil'd, 
A harmony of energies sublime, 
Knit in that high-brow'd people. Courtesy, 
Death-scorning valour, Fame's immortal thirst, 
And honour inbreathed like the lile of life. 

" Then rose that strong Archangel, and he smote 
- The bosom of the land ; at once leap'd up 

That mighty people. Here a Snow-white Rose, 
And there a Red, with fatal blossoming. 
And deadly fragrance, maddening all the land. 
I heard, I saw — ah, impious sights and sounds! 
Two war-cries in one tongue, two banner-rolls 
Woven in one loom, two lances from one forge, 
Two children from one womb in conflict met ; 
'Gainst brother brother's blood cried out to heaven, 
^ And he that rent the vizor of his foe 

Loolc'd through the shatter'd bars, and saw his son. 
Ha, Britain! in thine entrails dost thou flesh 
Thy ravin ! thy baronial castles blaze 
With firebrands from their hospitable hearths. 

" Mercy," I cried aloud, " thou Merciless ! 
Destroy no more. Destroyer! Prone I fell, 
And hid mine aching eyes deep in the dust; 
\ So from my rocking memory to shut out 

Those wars unnatural. Pass'd a sound at length 

As of a Wild Boar hunted to his death : 

I raised mine head, still there the Archangel stood ; 

Another pause, another gleam of hope ; 

But in that quiet interval me-seem'd 

Trumpetings, as of victory from the sea, 

Flow'd o'er the Isle, and glories beam'd abroad 

From a triumphant throne, where sate elate 

A Virgin : all around her Poets' harps 

Strew'd flowers of amaranth blooming ; and raethought 

Was joy and solemn welcoming in heaven 

Of a pure incense, that from all the Isle 

Soar'd to the unapproached throne of God. 

" Then saw I through the Isle a River broad 
And full, and they that drank thereof look'd up 
Like children dropt forth from a nobler world, 
So powerful that proud water work'd within, 
Freshening the body and the soul : and each 
Beauty array'd and a frank simple strength. 
i The river's name was Freedom : her fair tide 
I So pleasant thrall'd mine eye, I saw not rise 
i Th' Archangel's spear : th' earth's reehng woke me 
'i then. 

For lo, upon a throne, a gallant Prince, 
That with misguided sceptre strove to check 
That powerful stream : whereat the rebel tide 
I Swell'd up with indignation, and aloof 

Stood gathering its high-cresting waves ; down came 
I The deluge, that fair throne, and all its strong 
Nobility of pillars, with a crash 
Came to the earth, while they that drank rush'd out 
Inebriate with excess of that fierce stream, 
And cast a bloody sacrifice, that head 
Endiadem'd with royalty, to glut 
The tide implacable. 'Tis sad to hear. 
Ay, Samor, what was it to see ! Brave Chief, 
26 



Cold winter leads the pleasant summer on. 
The night must darken ere the morning dawn ; 
The summer came, the morning dawn'd, I saw 
The arch'd heavens open o'er the angelic shape, 
And upward like a cloud he mingled in 
To the sky's cloudiness. I cried aloud 
'For ever!' the close settling in the heaven 
Seem'd to reply ' For ever.' Not with him 
Pass'd off my vision fair. Another throne 
Stood by the venturous margin of that stream : 
Then merriment, and loose-harp'd wantonness 
Smoothed the late ruffled air; immodest tones, 
To which fair forms in dancing motion swam : 
They paused, then dark around that throne it seem'd, 
Whereat those holy hymns that scarce had ceased 
To float up in their airy-winged course. 
In faintness 'gan to tremble and break off; 
That stream again upgather'd its waked wrath, 
And foamy menace. When behold, a fleet 
Came tilting o'er the ocean waves, and cast 
A Lady and a Warrior on the shore. 
And kingly crowns around their brows august 
Out blossom 'd ; on the throne they took their seat, 
Soar'd gladness on the wings of those pure hymns. 
And the majestic stream in sunlight flow 
And full rejoicing murmur, all its waves 
Wafted around the high and steady throne. 

" Now listen with thy soul, not with thine ears : 
Briton ! beside that stream a Tree sprang out, 
With ever-mounting height, and amplitude 
Aye-spreading; deep in earth its gnarled roots 
Struck down, as though to strengthen this frail world: 
Its crown amid the clouds seem'd soaring up 
For calm above earth's tossing and rude stir. 
And its broad branching spread so wide, its shade 
Lay upon distant realms; one golden bright, 
Close by the cradle of the infant sun. 
And others in new western worlds remote ; 
And from that mystic river, Freedom, flow'd 
A moisture like the sap of life, that fed 
And fertilized the spacious Tree; the gales 
Of ocean with a gorgeous freshness flush'd 
The beauty of its foliage. Blossoms rare 
Were on it; holy deeds, that in the airs 
Of heaven delicious smelt, and fruits on earth 
Shower'd from it, making its sad visage smile. 
For life and hope and bliss was in their taste. 
Amid the state of boughs twin Eagles hung 
Their eyries. Victory and Renown, and swung 
In rapturous sport with the tumultuous winds. 
But birds obscene. Dishonour, Shame, Dismay, 
Scared by the light of the bright leaves, aloof 
Far wheel'd their sullen flight, nor dared to stoop. 
I saw the nations graft their wasted trunks 
I From those broad boughs of beauty and of strength. 
And dip their drain'd urns in that sacred stream. 
But in the deep peculiar shade there stood 
A Throne, an Altar, and a Senate-house. 
Upon the throne a King sate, triple-crown 'd 
As by three kingdoms; voices eloquent 
In harmony of discord fulmined forth 
From tliat wise Senate : in swift intercourse 

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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To and fro from heaven's crystal battlements 

To that pure altar Angels stoop'd their flight. 

And through the sunny boughs Philosophers | 

Held commerce with the skies, and drew from thence 

The stars to suffer their sage scrutiny ; 

And Poets sent up through the bowery vault 

Such lavish harmonies, the charm'd air seem'd 

Forgetful of its twinkling motion dim. 

"Oh, admirable Tree! thou shalt not fall 
By foreign axe, or slow decay within I 
The tempests strengthen thee, the summer airs 
Corrupt not, but adorn. Until that tide, 
Freedom, the Inexhaustible, exhaust. 
Lives the coeval Immortality." 

The Prophet ceased : still Samor on his iiice, 
That in solemnity of firm appeal 
Look'd heavenward, with a passionate belief 
Gazed, and a glad abandonment. " Ha, Seer, 
But now when thou began'st 't was noon of day. 
And now deep night. Yea, Merlin, and by night 
The Tamer of the White Steed must go forge 
His iron curb." Forth like a cataract 
He burst, and bounded down the mountain side. 
"Yet once again, tumultuous world, I plunge 
Amid thy mad abyss ; thou proud and fierce, 
I come to break and tame thee ! see ye not, 
V/ise Hengist ! strong Caswallon I how the sand 
Is luider your high towering thrones, the worm 
Is in your showy palms." — .-Xnd then a pause 
Of tumult and proud trembling in his soul. 
And, " False it was not, but a gleam vouchsafed 
From the eternal orb of truth, the sense 
That inbred and ingrain'd with my soul's life. 
Hath made of Britain to this leaping heart 
A sound not merely of deep love, but pride 
Intense, and inborn majesty. I feel, 
And from my earliest consciousness have felt, 
That in the wide hereafter, where old Fate 
Broods o'er the unravelling web of human things. 
Woven by the Almighty, spreads thy tissue broad 
In light, among the dark and mazy threads ; 
Vicissitude or mutability 
Quench not its desolate lustre, on it winds 
Unbroken, unattainted, unobscured." — 

So pass'd he: who had seen, him then had deem'd. 
By the proud steed-like tossing of his crest, 
His motion like the uncheck'd August sun 
Travelling the cloudless vacancy of air, 
A monarch for his summer pastime gone 
Into the shady grove, with courtier train. 
And plumed steed, and laden sumpter mule, 
Cool canopy, and velvet carpeting. 
But he beneath the sleety winter sky. 
Even his hard arms bit into by the keen 
And searching airs, houseless, by hazard found 
Plis coarse irregular fare, his drink, the ice 
Toilsomely broken from the stiff black pool. 
The furr'd wolf in the mossy oaken trunk 
Lapp'd himself from the beating snow, but on 
Went Samor with unshivering naked fogt ; 



The tempest from the mountain side tore down 
The pine, like a scathed trophy casting it 
To moulder in the vale, but Samor's brow 
Fronted the rude sky ; the free torrent felt 
The ice its rushing turbulence o'ergrovv. 
Translucent in its cold captivity 
It hung, but Samor burst the invading frost 
From the untamed waters of his .soul, and flow'd 
Fetterless on his deep unfathom'd course. 

And thou, wild Deva, how hast thou foregone 
Thy summer music, and thy sunny play 
Of eddies whitening 'mid thy channel stones ; 
Bard-beloved river, on whose green-fringed brink 
The fine imagining Grecian sure bad feign'd 
'Twixt ihy smooth Naiads and the Sylvans rude 
Of thy grey woods stolen amorous intercourse; 
With such a slow reluctance thou delay 'st 
Under the dipping branches, that flap up 
With every shifting motion of the wind 
Thy limpid moisture, and with .serpent coil 
Dost seem as thou wouldst mingle with thyself 
To wander o'er again the same loved course. 
Now lies thy ice-bound bosom mute and flat 
As marble pavement, thy o'ershadowing woods 
One bare, brown leaflessness, that faintly drop 
At intervals the heavy icicles. 
Like tears upon a monumental stone. 
But though the merry waters and brisk leaves 
Are silent, with their close-couch'd birds of song. 
Even in this blank dead season music loves 
Thy banks, and sounds harmonious must he heard 
Even o'er thy frozen waters. 'T was a hymn 
From a low chapel by the river side. 
Came struggling through the thick and hazy air. 
And made a gushing as of tears flow o'er 
The Wanderer's soul ; the form winds could not bow, 
Nor crazing tempests, those soft sounds amate ; 
Those dews of music melt into the frame 
Of adamant, proof against the parching frost. 

Under the porch he glided in. and knelt 
Unnoticed in the chrong : whose motion sway'd 
The beasts of ravin, he before his God 
Wore nought distinctive, save of those bruised reeds 
Was he the sorest bruised, and deepest seem'd 
The full devotion settling round his heart. 
More musical than the music on that soul, 
So long inured to things tumultuous, sights 
Rugged and strange, and hurrying and distract, 
Came the sensation of a face beloved. 
The calm of that old reverend brow, the glow 
Of its thin silver locks, was like a flash 
Of sunlight in the pauses of a storm. 
Now hath the white-stoled Bishop lifted up 
His arms, his parting bonison descends 
Like summer rain upon his flock. Whose ear. 
Oh, holy Germain, felt thy gentle tones 
As Samor's? ah, when last thy saintly brow 
For him look'd heavenward, and less tremulous then 
Thy voice on him breathed blessing, 't was in times 
Far brighter, at that jocund bridal hour 
When Emeric, rosy between shame and joy, 

314 



SAM OR, 



305 



Stood with him by the altar side : — " Thus live 
In love till Ufe's departure;" — Such thy prayer; 
Ah, words how vain ! sweet blessings unenjoy'd ! 

The throng hath parted ; in the House of God 
Still knelt the armed man ; with pressure strong 
He clasp'd old Germain's hand—" Good Bishop, thou 
Art skill'd in balancing our earthly sins. 
' I was a man, whose high ambitious head 

Was among God's bright stars; I deem'd of earth, 

As of a place whose dust my feet shook off 

With a heaven-gifted scorn, so far, so high 

Seem'd I above its tainting elevate. 

At midnight, on my slumber came the sin, 

I will not say how exquisite and fair ; 

Mine eyelids sprung apart to drink it in, 

My soul leap'd up to clasp it, and the folds 

Of passion, like a fiery robe, wrapt in 

My nature; I had fallen, but bounteous Heaven 

Of its most blest permitted one t' extend 

A snow-white arm of rescue." — "The hot tears 

Corrode and fret the warrior's brazen helm ; 

I will not ask thee of thine outward eyes. 

Hath thy soul wept ?" — "Ay, bishop, tears of blood ; 

Sorrow and shame weigh'd down my nerveless arm, 

And clipp'd th' aspiring plumage of my soul ; 

From out mine own heart scorn hiss'd at me." — " Well, 

Strong Man of arms, hast fought the inward fight, 

And God remit thy sins, as I remit." — 

" Then take thou to thine arms thy ancient friend." 
So saying, uprose Samor, like a star 
Out of the ocean, shining his bright face 
With the pure dews of penitence. But he, 
The old man, fell upon his neck and wept, 
As though th' endearing name, my Son, were voiced 
By nature, not by saintly use, a sound 
Not of the lips, but th' overflowing heart. 

Theirs was a broken conference, drear thoughts 
Of anguish, desolation, and despair. 
So moulded up with recollections svieet, 
They made the sunken visage smile through tears ; 
A few fair roses shed on a brown heath, 
A little honey in deep cups of gali : 
Light bridal airs broke in upon by sounds 
Funereal, shouts of triumph languishing 
To the faint shriek of agony, direness forced 
I Into the fresh bowers of delight, and death, 
Th' unjoyous, in the laughing feast of joy. 

'Tis th'one poor luxury the wretched have, 
To speak of wretchedness — yet brief their speech, 
" Vengeance and vigilance," the stern adieu 
Even in that hoary Bishop's ear, he went. 

But by the Bishop's side, just there where knelt 
Th' Avenger, a new form : 't was man in garb. 
But the thin fringing of the humid eye. 
The delicate wanderings of the rosy veins. 
The round full alabaster of the skin. 
The briefness of the modest sliding step. 
Something of womanly composure smooth. 
Even in the close and girt habiliments, 



Belied the stern appearance, — " Priest, with him 

But now who parted, is my soul allied 

In secret, close society ; his faith 

Must be my faith, his God my God." — " Fair youth, 

I question not by what imperious tie 

Of admiration or strong love thou 'rt led ; 

For as the Heavens with silent power intense 

Draw upward the light mists and fogs of earth, 

And steeping them in glory, hang them forth 

Fresh, renovate, and radiant ; virtue holds 

The like attractive influence, to her trains 

Souls light and clayey-tinctured, till they catch 

The fair contagion of her beauty, beam 

With her imparted light. Hear, heathen youth, 

Hear and believe." — As when beneath the nave 

Tall arching, the Cathedral organ 'gins 

Its prelude, lingeringly exquisite 

Within retired the bashful sweetness dwells, 

Anon like sunlight, or the floodgate rush 

Of waters, bursts it forth, clear, solemn, full ; 

It breaks upon the mazy fretted roof, 

It coils up round the clustering pillars tall, 

It leaps into the cell-like chapels, strikes 

Beneath the pavement sepulchres, at once 

The living temple is instinct, ablaze 

With the uncontroU'd exuberance of sound. 

Even so with smoothing gentleness began 
The mitred Preacher, winning audience close : 
Till rising up, the rapid argument 
Soar'd to the Empyrean, linking earth 
With heaven by golden chains of eloquence ; 
Till the mind, all its faculties and powers, 
Lay floating, self-surrender'd in the deep 
Of admiration. AVondroiis 't was to see. 
With the transitions of the Holy Creed, 
The workings of that regular bright face : 
Now ashy blank, now glittering bright, now dew'd 
With fast sad tears, now with a weeping smile, 
Now heavy with droop'd eyelids, open now 
With forehead arch'd in rapture; till at last 
Ensued a gasping listening without breath. 
But as the voice severe wound up the strain 
And from the heavenly history to enforce 
The everlasting moral, 'gan extort 
From the novitiate in the jealous faith 
Passionless purity, and life sincere 
From all the soft indulgences of sin ; 
Forbidden in the secret heart to shrine 
A dear unlawful image, to reserve 
A sad and narrow sanctuary for desire: 
Then stood in speechlessness, yet suppliant. 
With snowy arms outstretch'd, and quivering loose. 
The veiling mantle thrown in anguish back, 
Confest the Woman: starting from their band. 
Like golden waters o'er a marble bed, 
Flow'd out her long locks o'er her half-bare neck. 

"To tell me that in such cold solemn tones. 
All, all unwelcome, bitter as it is, 
I must believe, for its oppressive truth 
Loads on my soul, and he believes it all. 
To tell it me here, here, where all around 

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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Linger his vestiges, where the warm air 

Yet hath the motion of his breath, the sound 

Of his departing footsteps beating yet 

Upon my heart. Long sought! and found in vain! 

In sunshine have I sought thee and in shade, 

O'er mountain have I track'd thee, and through vale. 

The clouds have wrapp'd thee, but I lost thee not, 

The torrents drovvn'd thy track, but not from me, 

I dared not meet thee, but I sought thee still ; 

To me forbid, alone to me, what all 

The coarse and common things of nature may; 

The airs of heaven may touch thee, I may not, 

All human eyes behold thee — all but mine ; 

And thou, the senseless, enviable dust 

Mayst cherish the round traces of his limbs. 

His fresh fair image must away from me. 

Oh, that I were the dust whereon thou treadst, 

Even though 1 felt thee not!" — And is this she, 

The virgin of the festal hall, who won 

A kingdom for a smile, nor deign'd regard 

Its winning, and who stoop'd to be a Queen ? 

And is this she, whose coming on the earth 

Was like the Morn in her impearled car, 

Loftiest or loveliest which, 't were bold to say ? 

She whose enamouring scorn fell luxury-like 

On her beholdere, who seem'd glad to shrink 

Beneath the wreathed contempt of her full lip? 

This she, the Lady of the summer bark. 

To whom the sunshine and the airs, and all 

Th' inconstant waters play'd the courtier smooth, 

That cast a human feeling of delight 

At her bewitching presence o'er the blind 

Unconscious forms of nature ? Is this she? 

Those rich lips, for a monarch's banquet meet, 

Visiting the dust with fi-antic kiss, thus low. 

Thus desolate, thus liillen, of her fall 

Careless, so deep in shame, yet unashamed ! 

But thou. Heaven reconciled, on earth the seal'd, 
The anointed by the prophet's gladdening oils, 
God's instrument, hath midnight now resumed 
Its spirit-wafling function ? Emerie, she 
On earth so mild, in her had anger seem'd 
Unnatural as a war-song on a lute. 
As blood upon the pinion of a dove. 
In heaven has she her heavenly qualities 
Unlearnt? is she the angel now in all 
But its best part, forgiveness ? Can it be 
Th' ungentle North, the bleak and snowy air 
Estrange her now ? those elements of earth 
But tyrannize beneath the moon, the stars 
And spirits in their nature privileged 
From heat and cold, from fevering and from frost, 
Their pure and constant temperament maintain, 
Glide through the storm serene, and rosy warm 
Rove the frore winter air. Are sounds abroad, 
That Samor from his mossy pillow, stretch'd 
Under the oak, uplifts his head, and then. 
Like one bliss-overcome, subsides again ? 
Half sleep, half sense he lies, his nuptial hymn. 
Articulate each gay and dancing word, 
Distinct each delicate and dwelling fall. 
Is somewhere in the air about him ; looks 



Are on him of a bashful eye, too fond 
To turn away, too timorous to fix 
And rest unwavering. All the marriage rite 
Is acting now anew ; the sunlight falls 
Upon the gold-elasp'd book of prayer, as then 
It fell, and Germain speaks as Germain spake ; 
And Emerie, on her cheek the tear is there. 
Where then it hung in lucid trembling bright; 
The very fluttering of her yielded hand. 
When gliding up her finger small, the ring 
Made her his own for ever, throbs again 
Upon his sensitive touch. He dares not move 
Lest he should break the lovely bubble frail ; 
His tranced eyes stir not, lest they rove away 
From that delicious sight; his open hand 
Lies pulseless, lest the slightest change disturb 
That exquisite sensation : so he lies. 
Knowing all false, yet feeling all as true. 

And it was false, yet why ? that is indeed, 
Which is to sense and sight. Ah, well beseems 
Us, the strong insects of an April morn. 
Steady and constant as the thistle's down 
When winds are on it, lasting as the flake 
Of spring snow on the warm and grassy ground, 
Well beseems us, ourselves, our forms, our lives, 
The earth we tread on, and the air we breathe, 
The light and glassy peopling of a dream, 
T' arraign our visions for their perishing, 
And on their unreality to rail. 
Ungrateful to the illusion, that deceives 
To rapture, and unwise to cast away 
Sweet flowers because they are not amaranth. 

Thou, Samor, nor ungrateful nor unwise. 
That, 'scaping from this cold and dark below, 
Dost spread thee out for thy peculiar joy 
A land of fair imaginings, with shapes, 
And sounds, and motions, and sweet stillnesses, 
Dost give up all the moon beholds to woe 
And tumult, but in some far quiet sphere 
Findest thyself a pure companionship 
With spirits thou didst love, and who loved thee 
While passionate and earthly sense was theirs. 



BOOK IX. 



Who tracks the ship along the sea of storms? 
Who through the dark haste of the wintry clouds 
Pierceth to where the planet in retired 
And constant motion the blue arch of heaven 
Traverseth ? Sometimes on the mountain top 
Of some huge wave the reappearing bark 
Takes its high stand, with pennon fluttering far 
And cautious sail half furl'd, yet eminent 
As of th' assaulting element in disdain. 
Sometimes amid the darkness falling off; 
And scattering from its crystal sphere away. 
Bursts out the argent orb refresh'd, and shows 
Its lamp unquenchable. Thou voyager 

316 



SAMOR. 



307 



'Mid the rude waves of desolation, Star 

Of Britain's gloomy night, so bafflest thou 

My swift poetic vision ! now the waves 

Ride o'er thee, now the clouds devour thee up, 

And thou art lost to sight, and dare I say 

Lost to thy immortality of song? 

Thee too anon I see emerging proud 

From the dusk billows of calamity. 

That swoln and haughty irom the recent wreck 

Of thy compatriot navy, thee assail 

With their accumulated weight of surge. 

Thou topst some high-brovv'd wave, and shaking off 

On either side their fury, brandishest 

Thy solitary banner. Thee I see. 

Within th' embosoming midnight of the land, 

On gliding with smooth motion undisturb'd. 

And through the glimpses of the breaking gloom, 

Sometimes a solemn beauty sheddest fcjrth 

On the distemper'd face of human things. 

Full in the centre of Caer Ehranc* stood 
A temple, by the August Severus rear'd 
To Mavors the Implacable; what time 
That Ca;sar sloop'd his eagles on the wreck 
Of British freedom, when the mountaineer. 
The King of Morven, if old songs be sooth, 
Fingal, from Carun's bloody flashing waves t 
Shook the fled Roman on his new-built wall ; 
And Ossian woke up on his hill of dreams, 
And spread the glory of his .song abroad. 
To halo round his sceptred Hero's head. 

But not the less his work of pride pursued 

Th' imperial Roman ; up the pillars rose, 
' Slow lengthening out their long unbroken lines j 

In delicate solidity advanced, 
j And stately grace toward the sky, till met 
: By the light massiveness of roof, that sloped 
I Down on their flowery capitals. Nor knew 
j That man of purple and of diadem. 

The Universal Architect at work, 
I Framing for him a narrow building dark. 

The grave's lone building. Th' emperor and his bones 
j Into the blank of things forgot and past 

Had moulder'd, but this proud and 'during pile, 
' By wild weeds overgrown, by yellow hues 
I Of age deep tinted, still a triumph wrought 
I O'er time, and Christian disregard, and stood 

As though to mock its Maker's perishing. 

Upon the eastern pediment stood out 
A fierce relief, where the tumultuous stone 
Was nobly touch'd into a fit device 
For th' immortal Homicide within : it shovv'd 
His coming on the earth ; the God had burst 
The gates of Janus, that fell shattering back 
Behind him, from the wall the rearing steeds 
Sprung forth, and with their stony hoofs the air 
Insulted. Them Bellona urged, abroad 
Her snaky locks from her bare wrinkled brow 
Went scattering ; forward the haggard charioteer 
Lean'd, following to the coursers' reeking flanks 



* York. 
26* 



t Gibbon, cb. vi. 



20 



The furrowing scourge with all herself, and hung 
Over their backs half fury, and half joy. 
As though to listen to their bruising hoofs, 
That trampled the thick massacre. Erect 
Behind, with shield drawn in and forward spear. 
The coned helm finely shaped to th' arrliing brow, 
The God stood up within the car, that seem'd 
To rush whenever the fleet wind swept by. 
His brow was glory, and his arm was power, 
And a smooth immortality of youth. 
Like freshness from Elysium newly left, 
Th' embalming of celestial airs inhaled, 
Touch'd with a beauty to be shudder'd at 
His mas.sy shape, a lightning-like fierce grace, 
That makes itself admired, whilst it destroys. 

There on a throne, fronting the morning sun, 
Caswallon sate ; his sceptre a bright sword 
Unsheathed ; with savage art had he broke up 
His helmet to the likeness of a crown, 
Thereon uncouthly set and clustering bright 
Rich jewels glitter'd ; to his people ranged 
Upon the steps of marble sloping down, 
Barbaric justice minist'ring he sate. 
Expounding the absolute law of his own will, 
And from the abject at his feet received 
Homage that seem'd like worship: not alone 
From his wild people, but from lips baptized, 
Came titles that might make the patient Heavens 
Burst to the utterance of a laughing scorn ; 
Might wake up from the bosom of the grave, 
A bitter and compassionate contempt. 
To hear the inheritance of her dull worms. 
Named in his dauntless and unblushing style, 
" Uiiconqu'rable ! Omnipotent! Supreme I" — 

But all along the ranging column files, 
And all abroad the turgid landings spread, 
" Unconqu'rable ! Omnipotent! Supreme!" 

Yet he, the Stranger, whom Prince Mahvyn leads, 
He bows not, those hymn'd flatteries seem to jar 
Upon his sense, so high his head he bears 
Above them, like a man constrain'd to walk 
Amid low tufts of poisonous herbs ; he fronts 
The monarch, and thus 'gins his taunting strain : 
"Unconqu'rable! whose conquering is the wolf's 
That when the shifting battle rages yet. 
Steals to some desert corner of the field, 
And riots on the spoils. Omnipotent ! 
Ay, as a passive weapon, wielded now, 
Now cast away contemptuous for the dust 
To canker and to rust around. Supreme! 
O'er whom is Ruin on its vulture wings. 
Scoffing the bubble whereupon thou ridest. 
And waiting Hengist's call to swoop and pierce 
And dissipate its swoln and airy pride. 
Whose diadem of glory, sword of power, 
Yea, breath of lifo, at Hengist's wayward will. 
Cling to thee, ready at his beck to fade. 
And shiver and expire." — " At Hengist's call ! 
At Hengist's beck! at Hengist's!" — the word choked. 
With eyes that dug into the Stranger's face, 

317 



808 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet so by wrath bewilder'd, they had lost 
Distinction, rose Casvvallon. From the wall 
A lance he seized, huge as a pine-tree stem, 
That on Blencathara stands sheer 'gainst Heaven's 

storms : 
Far o'er all heads a long and rapid flight 
It cut along the air, till almost fail'd 
The sight to track it to its ponderous fall. 
Then taking on his throne his quiet seat, 
" Back, back to Hengist, say my lance flies thus, 
Bid him o'ercast it, then come here again 
To menace at Caswallon." — " Soft and weak, 
(Pursued the unwondering Stranger) know'st thou not, 
There is a strength, that is not of the arm, 
JsoT standeth in the muscles' sinewy play ? 
It striketh, but its striking is unseen. 
It wieldeth, what it wieldelh seeming yet 
Sway'd by its own free motion. King, I say. 
Thou stepp'st not, speak'st not, but obedient still 
To Hengist's empire, thou 'rt a dog that hunts 
But as thy master slips thee on his game, 
A bridled steed that vauntelh as his own 
His rider's prowess." — " Hah ! I know thee now, 
Insolent outcast, Samor?" — " And I thee, 
SeHk)utcast, once a Briton — oh thou fall'n 
When most thou seem'st exalted, oh most base 
When most ennobled, a most pitiful slave 
When bearing thee most lordly! Briton once, 
Ay, every clod of earth that makes a part 
Of this isle's round, each leaf of every tree. 
And every wave of every streamlet brook. 
Should look upon thee with a mother's glance. 
And speak unto thee with a mother's voice. 
But thou, most impious and unnatural son. 
Hast sold thy mother to the shame and curse 
Of foreign lust, hast knit a league to rend 
And sever her, most proud if some torn limb 
Be cast thee for thy lot." — Then rose again 
Caswallon, from his brow the crown took off. 
And placing it in Samor's hand — " I read 
Thy purpose, and there 's fire in 't, by my throne ! 
Now, Samor, place that crown upon my head, 
Do me thy homage, kneeling, as thy king. 
And thou and I, we '11 have a glorious tilt 
At these proud Saxons. Turn not off; may boys 
Gild their young javelins in Caswallon's blood. 
And women pluck me by the beard, if e'er 
On other terms I league with thee." — The crown 
Samor received, and Samor look'd to heaven, 
And Samor bow'd his knee, — "Almighty God, 
If thine eternal thunderbolts are yet 
Unweary of their function dire, if earth 
Yet, yet have not exhausted and consumed 
Thy flame-wing'd armoury of wrath, re.serve 
Some signal and particular revenge 
For this man's head : so this foul earth shall learn, 
Ere doomsday, that the sin, whose monstrous shape 
Doth most offend thy nice and sensitive sight. 
Is to bear arms against our native »and. 
Make thou of him a monumental ruin. 
To publish in the ages long remote. 
That sometimes is thy red right hand uplift 



Against the living guilty." — And to earth, 

Upleaping, Samor dash'd the crown ; the gems 

Lay starry on the pavement white. On high 

Caswallon the rear'd sword of justice swung, 

Heavy with death, above th' Avenger's head. 

But he — "Caswallon, hold thine hand, here, here 

Thy warrant for my safety, by thy son 

A poniard given, upon his heart to wreak 

All evil done myself" With bosom bare 

Stood Mahvyn by th' Avenger's side. But he 

Viewing that downy skin empurpled o'er 

With youth's light colouring, and his constant mien, 

Cast down the dagger, and " Fall what fall may. 

Excellent boy, my hand shall still be white 

From blood of thine." — Like wild-boar in his rush 

BafTled, or torrent-check'd, Caswallon paused — 

" Now, Christian, where learnt thou the art to wrest 

My vengeance from me ? Go, go, I may strike 

If the fit fire me. — By Andraste, boy, 

Boy Malwyn, there 's thy father in thy blood. 

Ha! Samor, thou hast 'scaped me novi-, erewhile 

I 'II make a footstool of thy neck, to mount 

On Britain's throne : alive or dead, I 'II have 

A knee as supple, and a front as low 

From thee, as any of my milk-fed slaves : 

Go, go." — And Malwyn led the Avenger forth 

Along the dull and sleepy shore of Ouse, 

Till all Caer Ebranc's sounds flagg'd on his ear. 

And all its towers had dwindled from his sight. 

Ere parting, Malwyn clasp'd his hand, and tears 

Hung in his eyelids. — " Oh, thou know'st not yet 

How Hengist sways my father's passive mind ! 

My sister, my sweet Lilian, she whose sight 

Made mine eyes tremble, whom I 've stolen to see. 

Despite my father's stern command, asleep 

With parted lips, and snowy breathing skin. 

Scarce knew she me, her brother ; her knew I 

So only that my spirit yearn'd to mix 

With hers in fondness, she, even she, the soft 

The innocent, a wolf had loved her, she 

Ilath felt the drowning waters o'er her close, 

Fair victim of a hellish sacrifice." 

After a troubled silence, spake the Chief: 

" JMalwyn, my Christian pupil, God will give 

The loved on earth another meeting-place ; 

Adieu, remember. Vengeance, Vigilance." — 

The spring had made an early efCon faint, 
T' encroach upon the Winter's ancient reign. 
And she had lured forth from the glittering earth 
The snowdrop and pale cowslip, th' elder tree 
And hawthorn their green buds shot out, yet fear'd 
T' entrust the rude air with their dainty folds, 
A fresh green sparkled where the snow had been, 
And here and there a bird on the bare spray 
Warbled a timorous welcome, and the stream 
Of Eamont, as rejoicing to be free, 
Went laughing down its sunny silvering course. 

The only wint'ry thing on Eamont's shore 
Is human ; powerless are the airs that touch 
To breathing and to kindling the dead earth. 
Powerless the dewy trembling of the sun, 

318 



SAMOR. 



309 



To melt around the heart of Vortimer 

The snow that flakes and curdles there — that bank, 

That little bank of fair and cherish'd turf, 

Whereon his head reclines, ah, doth not rest! 

By its round swelling, likest were a grave. 

Save that 't were brief and narrow for all else 

But fairy, or those slender watery shapes 

That dance beneath the stream. Yet there the spring 

Hath dropp'd her first, her tenderest bloom ,• the airs 

Find the first flowery odours on that spot ; 

Cowslip is there and primrose faint and pale, 

The daisy and the violet's blue eyes. 

Peeping from out the shaking grass. The step 

Of Samor wakens the pale slumberer there, 

He lifts his lean hands up, and parts away 

The matting hair from o'er his eyes, which look 

As though the painful sunlight wilder'd them. 

With stony stare that saw not. Save that lay 

A shepherd's wallet by his side, had seem'd 

That foot of man ne'er ventured here ; all sounds 

Were strange and foreign, save the pendent arms 

Swinging above with heavy knelling sound. 

But Samor's presence made a sudden break 

Upon his miserable flow of thought; 

He motion'd first with bony arm, then spake. 

" Away, away, thou 'rt fearful, thou 'It disturb, 

Away with thy arm'd head and iron heel, 

She will not venture, while thy aspect fierce 

Haunts hereabout, she cannot brook a sound. 

Nor any thing that's rude, and dark, and harsh. 

Nor any voice, nor any look but mine ; 

She will not come up, if thou linger'st here; 

Hard and discourteous man, why seek to keep 

My own, my buried from me ! why prevent 

The smiling intercourse of those that love!" — 

*' Sad man, what mean'st thou ?" — " Speak not, but 

begone, 
I tell thee, she 's beneath, I laid her there, 
And she '11 come up to me, I know she will. 
Trembling and slender, soft and rosy pale. 
I know it, all things sound, and all things smile, 
As when she wont to meet me." — " Woeful youth. 
The dead shall never rise but once." — " And why? 
The primrose that was dead, I saw it shed 
Its leaves, and now again 'tis fresh and fair; 
The swallow, fled on gliding wing away. 
Like a departing spirit, see it skims 
The waters ; the white dormouse, that went down 
Into its cave, hath been abroad ; the stream. 
That was so silent, hark I its murmuring voice 
Is round about us. Lilian too, to meet 
The voices and the breathing things she loved. 
Amid the sunshine and the springing joy 
Will rise again." — "Kind Heaven, I should have 

knovin, 
Though rust-embrown 'd, yon breast-plate, and yon 

helm, 
I should have known, though furrowy, sunk and wan, 
That lace, though wreck'd and broken that tall form; 
Prince Vortimer! in maiden or in child, 
Fancies so sick and wild had been most sad. 
But in a martial and renowned chief, 
Might teach a trick of pity to a fiend. 



Oh, much abused ! much injured, well, too well 

Hath that fell man the deed of evil wrought." — 

" Man, man! then there is man, whose blood will flow. 

Whose flesh will quiver uniler the keen steel, 

Samor!" — And up he leap'd, as though he flung 

Like a dead load the dreamy madness ofK 

"Samor! thou tranquil soul! that walk'st abroad 

With thy calm reason, and thy cloudless face 

Unchangeable, as a cold midnight star: 

Thou scarce wilt credit, I have found a joy 

In hurling stones down on that glassy tide. 

And with an angry and quick-dashing foot. 

Breaking the senseless smoothness, that methought 

Smiled wickedly upon me, and rejoiced 

At its own guilt and my calamity. 

But oh, upon a thing that feels and bleeds, 

And shrieks and shudders, with avenging arm 

To spring ! Where is 't and who? good Samor, tell." — 

And Samor told the tale, and thus — " Brave youth, 

Not only from yon narrow turf, come up 

From Britain's every hill, and glen, and plain. 

Deep voices that invoke thee, Vortimer, 

To waken from thy woeful rest. Thy arm 

No selfish, close, and singular revenge 

Must nerve and freshen ; in thy country's cause. 

Not in thy own, that fury must be wreak'd." 

His answer was the brandishing his sword. 
Which he had rent down from th' o'erhanging bough. 
And the infuriate riot of his eye. 

" Oh, perilous your hazard," still went on 
Samor, "ye foes of freedom, ye take off 
Heaven's bonds from all our fiercer part of man. 
Ye legalize forbidden thoughts, the thirst 
Of blood ye make a glory, give the hue 
Of honour and sell-admiration proud 
To passions murky, dark, unreconciled : 
The stern and Pagan vengeance sanctify 
To a Christian virtue, and our prayers, that mount 
Unto the throne of God, though harshly toned 
With imprecations, take their flight uncheck'd." 

But Vortimer upon the grassy bank 
Had fallen : " Not long, sweet spirit, oh not long. 
Shall violets be wanting on thy grave !" — 

Yet unaccompanied the Avenger past, — 
As though the wonted dark and solemn words, 
" Vengeance and Vigilance," had fix'd him there. 
Prince Vortimer remains by Eamont side. 

Samor ! the cities hear thy lonely voice 
Thy lonely tread is in the quiet vale. 
Thy lonely arm, amid his deep trench'd camp. 
The Saxon hears upon some crashing helm 
Breaking in thunder and in death. But thee, 
Why see I thee by Severn side ! what soft 
And indolent attraction wiles thee on. 
Even on this cold and gusty April day, 

I To the sad desert of thy ancient home ! 
Why mingle lor thyself the wormv^ood cup? 
Why plunge into the fount of bitterness ? 

I Or why, with sad indulgence, pamper up, 

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Wilful the moody sorrow, and relax 

Thy high-strung spirit ? Oh, so near, no power 

Hath he to pass from those old scenes away, 

He must go visit every spot beloved, 

And think on joys, no more to be enjoy'd. 

Ruin is there, but ruin slow and mild, 
The spider's wandering web is thm and grey 
On roof and wall, here clings the dusky bat, 
And, where his infants' voices used to sound, 
The owlet's sullen flutter and dull chirp 
Come o'er him ; on his hospitable hearth 
The blind worm and slow beetle crawl their round. 
Yet is no little, light, and trivial thing. 
Without its tender memory; first with kiss, 
Long and apparent sweet, the primrose bed 
He visits, where that graceful girl is laid. 
Then roves he every chamber ; eye, and ear. 
And soul, all full of her, that is not there : 
Emeric haunts everywhere, there 's not a door 
Her thin form hath not glided through, no stone 
Upon the chequer'd marble where her foot 
Hath never glanced, no window whence her eyes 
Have never gazed for him ; the walls have heard 
Her voice ; her touch, now deathly cold, hath been 
Warm on so many things ; there hangs, even now. 
The lute, from whence those harmonies she drew. 
So sphere-like sweet, theyseem'd to drop from heaven. 
There, where the fox came starting out but now, 
There, circled with her infiints, did she sit ; 
And here the bridal couch, the couch of love, 
A little while, and then the bed of death. 
And lo that holy scroll of parchment, stamp'd 
With many a sentence of the word of God, 
Still open, Samor could not choose but read 
In large and brilliant characters emblazed, 
The Preacher's " Vanity of vanities." 

How like is grief to pleasure! here to stay 
One day, one night, to see the eve sink down 
Into the water, with its wonted fall, 
'T is strange temptation — and to gather up 
Sad relics. And the visionary night! 
How will its airy forms come sliding down. 
Here, where is old familiar looting all, 
'Tis strange temptation. — But the White-horse flag 
Past waving o'er his sight, at once he thought 
Of that seal'd day of destiny, when his foot 
Should trample on its neck, and burst away. 

Oh secret traveller o'er a ruin'd land. 
Yet once more must I seek thee 'mid the drear. 
The desolate, the dead. On Ambri plain. 
On Murder's blasted place of pride. Might seem 
At distance 't was a favour'd meadow, bright 
With richer herbage than the moorland brown 
Around it, the luxurious weeds look'd boon, 
And glanced their mnny-coiours fleck'd with dew. 
Seen nearer, scatter'd ail around appeared 
Few relics of that sumptuous feast, the wrecks 
Of lifeless things, that gaily glitter'd slill. 
While ail the living had been dark so long. 
Fragments of banners, and pavilion shreds, 



Or broken goblet here and there, or ring. 
Or collar on that day how proudly worn ! 

A stolen and hurried burying had there been; 
Here had the pious workman, as disturb'd 
At his imperfect toil, left struggling out 
A hand, whose bleach'd bones seem'd even yet to 

grasp 
The earth, so early, so untimely left. 
And here the grey flix of the wolf, here black 
Lay feathers of the obscene raven's wing. 
Showing, where they had marr'd the fruitless toil. 
And uncouth stones bore here and there a name. 
Haply the vaunted heritage of kings. 

It was a sad and stricken place ; though day 
Was in the heaven, and the fresh grass look'd green. 
The light was wither'd, nor was silence there 
A soothing quiet; busy ' t was, and chill 
And piercing, rather absence of strong sound. 
Than stillness, like the shivering interval 
Between the pauses of a passing bell. 

Oh Britain ! what a narrow place confines 
Thy powerful and thy princely! that grey earth 
Was what adorn'd and made thee proud : the fair. 
Whose beauty was the rapture of thy maids. 
The treasure of thy mothers : and the brave, 
Whose constant valour was thy wall of strength: 
The wealthy, whose air-gilding palace towers 
Made thee a realm of glory to detain 
The noon-day sun in his career ; thy wise, 
Whose grave and solemn argument controU'd 
Thy councils, and thy mighty, whose command 
Was law in thy strong cities. Beauty, viealth. 
Might, valour, wisdom, mingled and absorb'd 
In one cold similarity of dust. 
One layer of white and silent ashes all. 
The air breathes of mortality ; abroad 
A spirit seems to hover, pouring in 
Dim thoughts of Doomsday to the soul ; steal up 
Voiceless sensations of eternity 
From the blank earth. Oh, is it there beneath 
Th' invisible everlasting? or dispersed 
Among its immaterial kindred free, 
The elements? Oh man! man! fit compeer 
Of worms and angels, trodden under foot. 
Yet boundless h}^ the infinite expanse 
Of ether! mouldering and immutable! 

But thou. Avenger, in that quiet glebe. 
How many things are hid, once link'd to thee 
By ties more gentle than the coupling silk. 
That pairs two snowy doves ! hands used to meet 
In brotherly embrace with thine, and hearts 
Wherein thy image dwelt, clear, changeless, full 
As the Spring moon upon a crystal lake : 
Faces in feast, in council, and in fight. 
That took their colouring from thine. And thou 
Alone art breathing, moving, speaking here. 
Amid the cold, the motionless, the mute! 

Among that solemn multitude of graves 
One woman hath her dwelling, round and round 

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She wanders with a foot that seems to fear 

That it is treacling over one beloved. 

She seems to seek what she despairs to find. 

There's in her eye a wild inquiring roll, 

Yet th' eye is stony. Oft she stops to hear, 

Then, as in bitter disappointment, shakes 

Her loose hair, and again goes wandering on. 

She shriek'd at Samor's presence, and flung up 

Her arms, and in her shriek was laughter. "Thou! 

What dost thou with that face above the earth. 

Thou shouldst be with the rest!"—" My friend's soft 

bride 
The dainty Evelene!"— "That's it, the name 
Wherewith the winds have mock'd me every morn, 
And every dusky eve — or was it then ? 
Ay then it was, when I was wont to sleep 
On a soft bed, and when no rough winds blew 
About me, when I ever saw myself 
Drest glitt'ringly, and there was something else 
Then, which there is not now." — "Thy Elidure, 
Sad houseless widow !" — " Hah ! thou cunning man, 
'T was that, 'twas that! and thou canst tell me too 
Where they have laid him — well thou canst, I know 
There 's deep connexion 'twixt my grief and thee. 
Thou, thou art he that wakest sleepers up. 
And send'st them forth along the cold bare heath, 
To seek the dark and disappearing. There 
Sound bowlings at the midnight bleak, and blasts 
Shivering and fierce. And there come peasant boors 
That bring the mourner bread, and weave the roof 
Above her, of the brown and rustling fern ; 
But never sounds the voice, or comes the shape 
She sought for. Oh, my wakings and my sleeps 
How exquisite they were ! upon his breast 
I slept, and when I woke there smiled his face." 

Even as the female pigeon to her nest. 
All ruffled by rude winds and discomposed. 
Returning, with full breast sits brooding down. 
And all sinks smooth around her and beneath : 
So when the image of departed joy 
Revisited the heart of that sad wife. 
Settled to peace its wayward and distraught, 
Sw^ee.tly she spake, and unconfusedly heard, 
Of him the low, the undislinguish'd laid. 
Of Samor's friend, her bridegroom, Elidure. 
And somewhat of her pale and tender bloom 
With a faint flourishing enliven'd up 
The wither'd and the sunken rn her cheek ; 
But when again alone, o'er heart and brain 
Flash'd back the wandering, recommenced the search 
Ever with broken questionings, and mute 
Lip-parted listenings, pauses at each grave, 
As though it were her right, where lay her lord, 
That some inherent consciousness should start 
Within her; though 'tis nature's law, that one 
(llold undislinguish'd silence palls the dead. 
Yet, yet 't is hard and cruel not to grant 
One low sound, even the likeness of a sound. 
To tell her where to lay her down and die. 
Sure there are spirits round her, yet all leagued 
To abuse and lead astray, and his, even his, 
Pitiless as the rest, with jealous care 



Concealing its felt presence. Ghostly night 
Wafts her no dusk intelligence ; the day 
Shows nothing with its broad and glaring rays. 



BOOK X. 



But thou from North to South hast ranged the isle, 
from Skiddaw to the Cornwall sea-beat rocks, 
One icy face of desolation cold. 
One level sheet of sorrow and dismay. 
Avenger! thou hast traversed, hast but held 
Companionship with mourners and with slaves. 

Upon the northern rocks of Cornwall meet 
Th' Avenger and the Warrior ; thus spake he :— 
" How name ye yon strong castle on the rock?" 
"Tintagel, the prince Gorlois' towers." — " And whose 
Yon soldiers cresting with their camp the shore. 
And yon embattled navy on the sea. 
Rounding their moony circle?" "Mine!" — "And 

thou?" 
" Methinks, most solemn questioner, the helm 
Might well proclaim Pendragon." — "No, the front. 
Whereon that scaly blazon used to glow. 
Had ne'er been girding with unnatural siege 
A British castle, while all Britain lay 
In chains beneath the Stranger." — " What art thou, 
That beardest in thy high and taunting vein 
The Princes of the land?" — "A Prince!" — "Thus 

arm'd 
And thus attired !" — " Misjudging ! must thou learn 
The actions are the raiment of the man ? 
Better to serve my country in worn weeds 
And dinted arms like mine, than 'gainst her sons 
To lace a golden panoply. This rust, 
'Tis Saxon blood, for thine, its only praise 
Is its bright stainlessness. Look not, fierce Prince, 
As from my veins its earliest spots should fall, 
'Tis Britain barbs the arrows that I speak. 
And makes thy heart its mark." — " What man or more 
Thus fires and freeze.s, angers and controls 
With the majestic valour of his tongue, 
The never yet controU'd, and bears the name 
Of Britain, like a shield before him, broad 
And firm against my ripe and bursting wrath ? 
Samor! come, honour'd warrior, to my arms; 
Oh shame to see, and seeing not to know 
The noblest of our isle." — " No arms may fold 
Sanior within them, but a Briton's ; thou 
By this apostate war disownst the name. 
And leaguest dark alliance with her foes." 

" Ah, then thou knowst not, in yon rock is mew'd 
The crafty kite that hath my dove in thrall. 
My dove, my bride, my sweet Igerna ; her 
That Gorlois with his privy talon swoop'd. 
The gentle, the defenceless, and looks down 
From his air-swinging eyrie on my wrath, 
That like the sea against that rooted rock. 
Lashes and roars in vain." — "Thy bride!" — "My 
bride, 

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By holy words in saintly chapel spoke, 

And all before, the twilight meetings stolen, 

Upon the shelly beach, when came my bark 

Sliding with smooth oar throvigh the sovindless spray 

From the Armoric shore, and vows so fond 

The unfelt waters crept up round our feet; 

All after, rapturous union undisturb'd. 

Her father's blessing on our bridal couch. 

Promise of infant pledges, all o'erthrown, 

All wither'd by that Gorlois, that low worm 

I were too proud to tread on heretofore ; 

He with some cold and antiquated plea 

Of broken compact by the sire, away 

Reft with a villain stealth th' ill-guarded gem, 

And hoards it in his lone and trackless cave." 

" A darker and more precious theft has been : 
This Britain hath been stolen, this fair isle. 
This land of free-born Christian men become 
The rapine of fierce Heathens. Uther, hear. 
Hear, son of Constantine ! most dear the ties 
Of wedlock earthly woven, yet seal'd by God ; 
But those that link us to our native land 
Are wrought out from th' eternal adamant 
By the Almighty. Oh! thy country's call 
Loud with a thousand voices drowns the tone 
Of sweet complaining even from wife beloved — 
Forego the weaker, Uther, and obey 
The stronger duty." — " Bloodless man and cold, 
Or wrong I thee ; perchance the Saxon holds 
Thy Emeric, and my claims must cede to thine. 
Even as all beauties to that peerless star." — 

" Spare, Uther, spare thy taunting, she is safe ; 
Briton or Saxon harm not her." — " 'Tis well. 
Fair tidings! — but thy shuddering brow looks white." 
" There 's a cold safety, Uther, with the dead, 
There is where foes disturb no more, the grave." 
•' Pardon me, friend — oh pardon — but my wife, 
She too will seek that undisturbed place, 
Ere yield to that pale craven's love ; if false 
She dare not live, and yet, oh yet she lives!" 

Uprose the Avenger, and his way he took 
To where the rock broke off abrupt and sheer. 
Before him yawn'd the chasm, whose depth of gloom 
Sever'd the island Castle from the shore : 
The ocean waves, as though but newly rent 
That narrow channel, tumbled to and fro, 
Rush'd and recoil'd, and sullenly sent up 
An everlasting roar, deep echoed out 
From th' underworking caverns ; the white gulls 
Were wandering in the dusk abyss, and shone 
Faint sunlight here and there on the moist slate. 
The Castle drawbridge hung aloof, arm'd men 
Paced the stern ramparts, javelins look'd out. 
From embrasure and loop-hole arbalist 
And bowstring loaded lay with weight of shaft 
Menacing. On the dizzy brink stood up 
Th' Avenger, like a Seraph when absolved 
His earthly mission, on some sunny peak 
He waits the gathering cloud, whereon he wont 
To charioteer along the azure space ; 



In vain he waits not, under his plumed feet. 

And round his spreading wings it floats, 

And sails off proudly with its heavenly freight. 

Even thus at Samor's call down heavy fell 

The drawbridge, o'er the abyss th' Avenger springs; 

Tintagel's huge portcullis groaning up 

Its grooves gives way; then up the jealous bridge 

Behind him leaps, the gate falls clashing down. 

Half wonder, and half fear, Pendragon shook 
The terrors of his crest, and gasping stood. 
As when a hunter is gone in to brave 
The bear within his shaggy den, down peers 
His fellow through the dusk, and fears to see 
What his keen eyes strain after. But elate 
Appear'd upon the rampart that tall Chief, 
Seeming on th' outpour'd garrison to cast 
Words potent as the fabled Wizard's oils, 
With the terrific smoothness of their fire 
Wide sheeting the hush'd ocean; th' arbalist 
Discharged its unaim'd bolt, the arrow fell 
From the slack bowstring; careless of his charge, 
The watchman from his turret lean'd, o'er all 
Bright'ning and stilling the high language spread. 
Giving a cast of pride to vulgar brows, 
Shedding o'er stupor and thick-breathing awe 
A solemn hue of glory: Far it spread 
Beyond the sphere of sound, th 'indignant brow, 
The stately waving of the arm discoursed, 
Flow'd argument from every comely limb 
And the whole man was eloquence. From cliffj 
From bark gazed Uther's soldiery, one voice 
Held in suspense the wild and busy war. 
And on the motion of his lips the fate 
Of two strong armies hung. Anon the gate 
Flew up, the bridge lay shuddering o'er the chasm. 

Forth Samor comes, a Lady by his side. 
And Gorlois in the garb of peace behind. 
Tremblingly she came gliding on, and smooth. 
As the west wind o'er beds of flowers, a child 
Was with her : the cool freshness of the air 
Seem'd o'er her marble cheek to flush unused 
To breathe, and human faces o'er her threw 
A modest, faint disturbance. Uther rush'd 
To meet her, ere he came her failing frame 
Seem'd as it sought some breast to sink upon, 
Though feebly resolute, that none but his 
Should be the chosen resting-place. But he 
Severe withheld her. — "Can the snowdrop bloom 
Untainted on the hemlock bank? near thee, 
Igerna, long hath trail'd a venomous plant. 
Hast thou the sullying influence 'scaped ?" — She strove 
To work displeasure to her brow, the joy. 
The fondness would not give it place ; she held 
Her boy on high, she pointed from the lines 
Of his soft face to Uther's, with appeal 
Half rapture, half reproach, and cast herself 
With timid boldness on her rightful couch, 
Her husband's bosom, that received her in. 
Even as the opening clouds an angel home 
Returning. But the joyous boy relax'd 
His features to a beautiful delight; 

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313 



To the fierce Dragon on his father's helm 
Lifting his sportive hand, and smoothing down 
The horrent scales, and looking with glad eye 
Into the fiery hollow of his jaws. 

Mute lay the armies, the pale Gorlois wrought 
His features to a politic joy, alone 
Stood Samor and aloof, he stood in tears. 
Samor, amid the plain of buried men 
Tearless, and in his own deserted home, 
In tears nnveil'd before th' assembled camp ; 
It was so like a meeting after death. 
That union of the husband and the wife, 
So ghostly, so unearthly. Thus .shall meet 
The disembodied, Emeric and himself, 
Not with rude rocks their footing, the cold airs 
And cloudy sunshine of this world aro\nid. 
But all of life must intervene, and all 
The long dark grave mysterious : yet even here 
It was a sweet impossibility, 
Wherewith at times his soul mad dalliance held, 
An earthly, bodily, sensible caress. 
Even long and rapturous, as that hanging now 
On Uther's neck from soft Igernu's arms. 

Upon the silence burst a voice that cried 
" Arthur," whereat the child his sport broke oflf 
With that embossed serpent, and stretch'd out 
His arms, where, on the fragment of a rock, 
Stood Merlin. " Arthur, hail ! hail, fatal Eoy, 
Bright arrow from the bow of Destiny, 
Go forth upon thy fiery course ! the steeds 
Are in the meadows that shall bear thee forth, 
Thee and thy barbed chivalry ! the spears 
Are forged wherewith in tourney and in fight 
Ye shall o'erbear the vaunting Saxon! shields 
Are stamping with your bright devices bold ; 
And Bards are leaning on their high-strung harps, 
Awaiting thee, to flower out in their boon 
And ripe fertility of song. Go forth, 
Strong reaper in the harvest of renown, 
Arthur ! the everlasting Lord of Fate 
Hath summon'd thee to thy immortal race !" 

The infant clapp'd his hands, Pendragon flung 
Aloft his scaly bickering crest, her child 
Igerna folded to her heart, and wept. 
And forward lean'd the Avenger to salute 
Snowdon's dark Prophet, Merlin was not there. 

Good fortune on good fortune followeth fast; 
Tidings come rapid of a Breton fleet 
Seen on the southern shore ; the chiefs are past 
To where th' Archangel's Mount o'erlooks the sea. 

Oh go not tQ thy couch, thou bright-hair'd Sun ! 
Though Ocean spread its welcoming breast, yet pause 
'Mid that etherial architecture wrought 
Around thee by thine own creative light. 
How broad the over-vaulting palace arch 
Spreads up the heavens with amethyst ceil'd, and hung 
With an enwoven tapestry of flame. 
Waved over by long banner, and emblazed, 
Like hall of old barbaric Potentate, 
With scutcheon and with shield, that now unfold, 



Now in their cloudy texture shift; and paved 
With watery mosaic rich, the waves 
Quick glancing, like a floating surface, laid 
With porphyry and crystal interwrought. 
There 's yet a sight, O Sun! to check awhile 
Thy setting; lo, the failing breezes lift 
The white wings of that fair Armoric fleet 
To catch the level lines of light; the oars 
Flash up the spray, that purples as it falls : 
While, wearing one by one, their armed freight 
They cast out on the surfy beach. The Kings, 
King Emrys and Armoric Hoel meet 
Pendragon, Samor, and their band of chiefs. 

There meet they on the land's extremest verge 
To conquer, to deliver, few, but strong. 
Strong in the sinews of the soul; as rose 
The giant wrestler from his mother's breast. 
Earth-born Anteus, his huge limbs refresh'd 
For the Herculean combat, so shall ye, 
Kings, Chiefs, and Warriors, from your native soil 
Draw to the immortal faculties of mind 
A springtide everlasting and unchanged. 
The armour of a holy cause outshines 
The iron or the knosped brass, and hopes 
And memories to the home-returning brave 
Crowding from every speck of sacred earth 
Outplead the trumpet's wakening blast, till leaps 
Vengeance to Glory's vanguard post, and leads 
The onset, and looks proudly down to see 
The red blood deepening round her laving feet. 

Alas, that in your harvest of high thoughts. 
Thick set with golden promise of renown, 
The poppy seeds of envy and distrust 
Should take their baleful root. Slow winds along 
Gorlois, the sower of that noxious crop. 
Scattering it in with careless toil ; now stands 
By royal Emrys' side, now mines beneath 
Pendragon's towery soul, now sadly warns 
With cautious words and dark speech broken off, 
Hoel, the crown'd Armorican; his looks 
Belying his feign'd confidence of speech. 
But half surmising fear, and killing hope 
By his cold care of keeping it alive. 

" Not that I love not, whom all love, admire 
On whom the admiration of all hearts 
Falls with such free profusion, 't is no shame 
For us mean lamps befiire great Samor's light 
To wane and glimmer in our faint eclipse. 
Yet whence this fettering of all eyes and hearts? 
Tiiis stern unsocial solitude of fame ? 
True, from that fatal banquet 'scaped he, true. 
Undaunted hath he roved the isle, nor doubt 
For some high purpose, that 't were rash for us 
To search out with our dim and misty sight; 
Nor think, King Emrys, I thy crown assert 
Unstably set upon thy royal brow. 
But tliere 's a dazzling in its jewel'd round 
Might tempt a less sel(-maslering grasp. Who holds 
The souls of men in thraldom with his tongue. 
Makes bridges grow before him, stony walls 
Break up to give him way, — I speak not now 

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In vengeance of Tintagel, 't was a deed 

Mosl worth my richest praise, that made me friend 

To brave Pendragon. But ambition wreck'd 

The angels, and the climbing soul of man 

Hath sinn'd for meaner gain than Britain's throne."— 

So one by one he wound his serpent coil 
Around the Chieftains' souls; and inly breathed 
The creeping venom. But Pendragon 's heart, 
Too fiery or too noble to suspect, 
In Samor's teeth flung fierce th' oppressive doubt. 
Th' Avenger's tranquil smile was like the change 
Of aspect in a green and lofiy tree 
Touch'd by the wings of some faint breeze, nor shakes 
The massy foliage, nor is quite at rest. 
While languidly the undisturbing air 
Falls away and expires. " Will Emrys hold 
At midnight on St. Michael's Mount his pomp 
Of Coronation ? Samor will be there." 
" At midnight !" — " Ay, the fires will gaily blaze. 
The silent air is meet for solemn oaths." — 
The night is starless, soft and still, the heavens 
O'erwoven with a thin and rayless mist ; 
A long low heavy sound of breaking surge 
Roams down the shore, and now and then the woods 
Flutter and bend with one short rush of wind. 
The tide hath risen o'er the stony belt. 
That to the mainland links the Mount : where meet 
Even now the Chieftains, ocean all around, 
On every side the white and moaning waves. 
On the bare summit, 'neath the cope of heaven, 
The conclave stands, bare, save a lofty pile 
Of wood compacted like funereal pyre 
Of a departed hero in old time 
On some ^gean promontory rear'd, 
Or by the Black inhospitable Sea. 

The crown is on king Emrys' head, his hair 
Is redolent with the anointing oil. 
"Hail, King of Britain!" — Samor cried, and "Hail!" 
Replied that band of heroes ; Hail ! the shores 
Echoed, from bark and tent came pealing up 
The universal Hail, the ocean waves 
Broke in with their hoarse murmur of applause. 

" Air, earth, and waters, ye have play'd your part, 
There's yet another element," — cried aloud 
Samor, and in the pyre he cast a brand. 
A moment, and uprush'd the giant fire. 
Piercing the dim heavens with its blazing brow, 
And on the still air shaking its red locks. 
There by its side the Vassals and their King, 
Motionless on their shadows huge and dun, 
Shovv'd like destroying Angels, round enwrapp'd 
In their careering pomp of flame ; far flash'd 
The yellow midnight day o'er shore and sea: 
The waves now ruddy heaved, now darkly plunged. 
Upon the rocks, within the wavering light 
Strong featured faces fierce, and hard-lined forms 
Broke out and disappear'd ; the anchor'd fleet 
Were laving their brown sides in rainbow spray. 
Tso sound was heard, but the devouring flame. 
And the thick plashing waters. — " Keep your faith, 
(Cried Samor) ye eternal hills, and ye 



Heaven-neighbouring mountains I" — Eastward far 

anon 
Another fire rose furious up, behind 
Another and another: all the hills 
Each behind each held up its crest of flame ; 
Along the heavens the bright and crimson hue 
Widening and deepening travels on : the range 
O'erleaps black Tamar, by whose ebon tide 
Cornwall is bounded, and on Heytor rock. 
Above the stony moorish source of Dart, 
It waves a sanguine standard ; Haldon burns, 
And the red City* glows a deeper hue ; 
And all the southern rocks, the moorland downs 
In those portentous characters of flame 
Discourse, and bear the glaring legend on. 
Even to the graves on Ambri plain, where woke 
That pallid woman, and rejoiced, and deem'd 
'T was sent to guide her to the tomb she sought 
Fast flash they up, those altars of revenge. 
As the snake-tress'd Sister torch-bearers, 
Th' Eumenides, from the Tartarian depths 
Were leaping on from hill to hill, on each 
Leaving the tracks of their flame-dropping feet. 
Or as the souls of the dead fathers, wrapt 
In bright meteorous grave-clolhes, had arisen, 
And each sate crowning his accustom'd hill. 
Silent or radiant: or as th' isle devote 
Had wrought down by her bold and frequent guilt 
Th' Almighty's lightning shafts, now numberless 
Forth raining from the lurid reeking clouds. 
And smiting all the heights. On spreads the train. 
Northward it breaks upon the Quantock ridge, 
It reddens on the Mendip forests dark. 
It looks into the cavern'd Cheddar cliflS, 
The boatman on the Severn mouth awakes 
And sees the waters rippling round his keel 
In spots and streaks of purple light, each shore 
Ablaze with all its answering hills ; the streams 
Run glittering down Plinlimmon's side, though thick 
And moonless the wan night: and Idris stands 
Like Slromboli or ^tna, where 't was feign'd 
E'er at their flashing furnace wTought the Sons 
Of Vulcan, forging with eternal toil 
Jove's never idle thunderbolts. And thou, 
Snowdon, the king of mountains, art not dark 
Amid thy vassal brethren gleaming bright. 
Is it to welcome thy returning Seer, 
That thus above thy clouds, above thy snows 
Thou wear'st that wreathed diadem of fire. 
As to outshine the pale and winking stars? 
O'er Menai's waters blue the gleaming spreads, 
The Bard in Mona's secret grove beholds 
A glitter on his harp-strings, and looks out 
Upon the kindling clifl^s of Penmanmawr. 
Is it a pile of martyrdom above 
Clwyd's green vale? beside the embers bright 
Stands holy Germain, as a saint new come 
From the pure mansions of beatitude. 
The centre of a glory, that spreads round 
Its film of thin pellucid gold. Nor there 
Pauses the restless Messenger, still on 



' Caer rulh, Exeter. 



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315 



Vaults it from rock to rock, from peak to peak. 
Far seen it shimmer'd on Caer Ebranc wail, 
And Malvvyn blew a bugle blast for joy. 
The sun uprising sees the dusk night (led 
Already from tall Pendle, and the height 
Of Ingleborough, sees Helvellyn cast 
A meteor splendour on the mountain lakes, 
Like mirrors of the liquid molten brass. 
The brightest and the broadest and the last. 
There flakes the beacon glare, and in the midst 
Dashing the ruddy sparkles to and fro 
With the black remnant of a pine-tree stem. 
Stands arm'd from head to foot Prince Vortimer. 



BOOK XI. 



Mighty in thy endurance, in revenge 

Mightier ! thou shakest thy dusky patience off, 

O Britain ! as a snake its wither'd skin, 

That boastful to the sunshine coils and spreads 

In bright and cruel beauty. Not in vain 

Have those wild beacons rear'd their fires, thou 

wakest. 
The slumber falls from thee, as dewdrops shed 
From the morn-kindling falcon's wing. On hill, 
In vale, in forest and in moor, in field 
And city, like the free and common air. 
Like the wide-spreading golden hue of dawn. 
Ranges the boundless passion uncontroU'd. 
The " Vigilance," hath dropp'd absorb'd away 
From the fierce war-cry, one portending word 
" Vengeance," rides lonely upon all the winds. 

Alas, delicious Spring! God sends thee dowTi 
To breathe upon his cold and perish'd works 
Beauteous revival ; earth should welcome thee, 
Thee and the West wind, thy smooth paramour. 
With the soft laughter of her flowery meads. 
Her joys, her melodies. The prancing slag 
Flutters the shivering fern, the steed shakes out 
His mane, the dewy herbage silver-webb'd 
With frank step trampling; the wild goat looks down 
From his empurpling bed of heath, where break 
The watere deep and blue with crystal gleams 
Of their quick-leaping people : the fresh lark 
Is in the morning sky, the nightingale 
Tunes evesong to the dropping waterfall. 
Creation lives with loveliness, all melts 
And trembles into one mild harmony. 
Man, only harsh and inharmonious Man, 
Strews for thy delicate feet the battle field. 
Makes all thy smooth and flowing airs to jar 
With his hoarse trumpetings, scares thy sweet light 
With gleams of violent and angry brass. 

Away! it is a yearly common joy, 
A rapture that ne'er fails the solemn Sun 
In his eternal round, the blossoming 
And fragrance of the green resolving earth. 
But a fresh springtide in the human soul, 
27 2? 



A nation from its wintry trance set loose. 
The bursting ice of servitude, the bloom 
Of freedom in the wither'd mind obscure, 
The bleakness of the heart discomfited, 
And over the bow'd shape and darkling brow 
The flowering out of faded glories, sounds 
Of cheering and of comfort to the rent 
And broken by the tyrannous northern blast, 
These are earth's rich adornings, these the choice 
Of nature's bounteous and inspiring shows. 
Therefore the young Sun with his prime of light 
Shall beam on ensigns; the blithe airs shall waft 
Jocund the lofty pealing battle words ; 
And not unwelcome, fierce crests intercept 
The spring-dews from the thirsty soil ; the brass 
For vestment the admiring earth shall wear 
More proud than all her flowery robe of green. 

In all the isle was flat subjection tame. 
In all the isle, hath Freedom rear'd her, plumed 
With terror, sandal'd with relentlessness : 
Her march like brazen chariots, or the tramp 
Of horsemen in a rocky glen ; and clouds 
Of javelins in her front, and in her rear 
Dead men in grisly heaps, dead Saxons strewn 
Upon their trampled White Horse banners : them 
Her fury hath no time to scorn, no pause 
To look back on her deathful deeds achieved. 
While aught remains before her to achieve. 
Distract amid the wide spread feast of blood. 
The wandering raven knows not where to feed. 
And the gorged vulture droops his wing and sleeps. 

War hath the garb of holiness, bear proof. 
Thou vale of Clwyd, to our cold late days. 
By the embalming of tradition named, 
Maes Garmon, of that saintly Bishop. He 
His grey thin locks unshaken, his slow port 
Calm as he trod a chapel's rush-strewn floor, 
Comes foremost of his Christian mountaineers, 
Against th' embattled Pagans' fierce array. 
By the green margin of the stream, the band 
Of Arngrim glitter in the morning light. 
Their shadowy lances line the marble stream 
With long and level rules of trembling shade ; 
The sunshine falling in between in streaks 
Of brightness. They th' unwonted show of war 
Behold slow winding down the wooded hill. 

" Now by our Gods," cried Arngrim, " discontent 
To scare our midnight with their insolent fires. 
They break upon our calm and peaceful day." 
But silent as the travel of the clouds 
At breathless twilight, or a flock that winds, 
Dappling the brown cliff with its snowy specks, 
Foldward along the evening dews, a bell 
Now and then tinkling, faintly shrill, come on 
Outspreading on the meadow the stern band 
Of Britons with their mitred Captain ; front 
Opposed to front they stand, and spear to spear. 
Then Germain clasp'd his hands and look'd to heaven. 
Then Germain in a deep and .solemn tone 
Cried "Alleluia!" answer was flung back: 

325 



310 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



From cliff and cavern, "Alleluia," burst; 

It seem'd strong voices broke the bosom'd earth, 

Dropt voices (rom the clouds, and in the rush 

Of waters was a human clamour,* far 

Swept over all things in its boundless range 

The scattering and discomfiting appeal : 

'T was shaken from the shivenng forest leaves, 

Ceaseless and countless, lifeless living things 

Multiplied, "Alleluia," all the air; 

Was that one word, all sounds became that sound, 

As the broad lightning swallows up all lights. 

All quench'd in one blue universal glare. 

On rush'd the Britons, but 'gainst flying foes, 
Quick smote the Britons, but no breast-plate clove 
Before them, then the ignominious death 
First through the back found way to Saxon hearts. 

Oh, Suevian forests! Clwyd's vale beholds 
What yo have never witness'd, Arngrim's flight — 
Fleet huntsman, thou art now the deer, the herd. 
Whereof thou wert the prime and lofty horn'd, 
Are falling fast around thee, th' unleash'd dogs 
Of havoc on their reeking flanks and thee, 
The herdsman of the meek and peaceful goats. 
Thee, the soft tuner of the reedy flute 
Beside Nantfrangon's stony cataract, 
Mordrin pursues. So strong that battle word 
Its holy transmutation and austere 
Works in the soul of man, the spirit sheathes 
In the thrice folding brass of valour, swells 
The thin and lazy blood t' a current fierce 
And torrent like, and in the breast erevvhile 
But open to the tremulous melting airs 
Of passions gentle and affections smooth. 
Plants armed hopes and eagle-wing'd desires. 
Therefore that youth his downy hand hath wreathed 
In the strong Suevian's knotted locks, drawn up 
Like a wrought helm of ebon ; therefore fix 
His eyes, more used to swim in languid light. 
With an implacable and constant stare 
Down on the face of Arngrim, backward drawn. 
As he its writhing agony enjoy 'd ; 
And therefore he, whose wont it was to bear 
The many sparkling crystal, or the cup 
Of dripping water lily from the spring 
To the blithe maiden of his love, now shakes 
A gory and dissever'd head aloft, 
And bounds in wild ovation down the vale. 

But in that dire and beacon-haunted night 
King Vortigern his wonted seat had ta'en 
Upon Caermerddhyn's topmost palace tower. 
There, the best privilege of greatness fall'n, 
He saw not, nor was seen : there wrapt in gloom, 
'Twas his soul's treasured luxury and choice joy 
To frame out of himself and his drear state. 
Dark comfortable likenesses, and full 
And frequent throng'd they this wild midnight. 
All cloudy and indistinct lay round ; the sole 
Dull glimmering like to light was what remain'd 



* Hollinshed, Book 5, Chap. 6. 



Of day, just not so utterly extinct 

And quench'd as yet to show splendour had been. 

And was not; the dusk simile of himself 

Delighted, royal once, now with a mock 

And mimic of his lustre haunted. Why, 

Why should not human glory wane, since clouds 

Put out the immortal planets in the sky? 

Why should not crowns have seasons, since the moon 

Hath but her hour to queen it in the heavens? 

Why should not high and climbing souls be lost 

In the benighting shroud of the world's gloom ? 

Lo, one inglorious, undistinguish'd night 

Gathers the ancient mountains in its train, 

While e'er the dunnest and most turbulent clouds 

Thicken upon the stateliest ; but beneath 

The lowly and contented waters lie 

Asleep upon their weedy banks, yet they 

Have all the faint blue brightness that remains. 

Then moodier the fantastic humour grown, 

Stoop'd upon mean and trivial things, them too 

Wrought to his wayward misanthropic scope. 

Amid the swaying and disturbed air 

The rooks hung murmuring on the oak-tree tops. 

As plaining their uneasy loftiness. 

Whde, solitary as himself, the owl 

Sate calling on its deaf and wandering mate. 

Him at that sound seized merriment, that made 

The lip drop, the brow writhe. " Howl on," he cried, 

" Howl for thy dusky paramour," — and lurn'd 

To where Rowena's chamber casements stood. 

Void, silent, dark of their once-brilliant lights. 

Sudden around 'gan spire the mountain tops 
Each with its intertwisted sheaf of flame. 
South, North and East and West, fire everywhere. 
Everywhere flashing and tumultuous light. 
Then gazed the unking'd, then cried out the fallen, 
" Now, by my soul, when comets gaze on kmgs 
Even from the far and vaulting heavens, 'tis faith 
There 's hollowness beneath their tottering thrones ; 
But when they flash upon our earth, and stare 
Close in our faces, 'tis ripe time and full 
For palaces to quake and royal tombs 
To ope their wide and all-receiving jaws. 
What is 't to me ? ye menace at the great ! 
Ye stoop not to be dangerous and dread, 
Oh haughty and mysterious lights ! to thrones 
Low and despised like mine; in earlier days 
Vortigern would have quail'd, he mocks you now. 
Ye are not of the heavens, I know, I see, 
Discomfitures of darkness. Conquerors 
Of midnight, ye are of the earth. Why stands 
Caermerddhyn and the realm of Dyfed black 
Amid this restless multitude of flames? 
'Tis not for idle or for fruitless show 
That with such splendid violation, Man 
Infringeth on stern nature's laws, and rends 
From night her consecrate and ancient pall ! 
Saraor, thy hand is there ! and Vortigern 
Hath not yet learnt the patience cold and fame 
To be outblnzed and stifled thus." — Down past 
The Monarch from his seat ; f^w minutes fled, 

325 



SAMOR. 



317 



And lo, within that Palace all look'd red, 

And hurried with a deep confusing glare : 

And over it a vaulting dome of smoke 

Surging arose and vast, till roaring out 

Columns of mounting fire sprung up, and all 

Whelra'd in one broad envelopement of flame, 

Stood ; as when in heroic Pagan song 

Apollo to his Clarian temple came ; 

At once the present Godhead kindled all 

Th' elaborate arciiitenture, glory-wreathed 

The pillars rose, the sculptured architrave 

Swam in the liquid gold, the worshipper 

Within the vestibule of marble pure. 

Held up his hand before his blinded eyes, 

And so adored : but th' unconsuming fire 

Innoxious ranged th' unparching edifice. 

But ne'er was Palace or was Monarch seen 

More in that City, one a smouldering heap 

Lay in its ashes white ; how went the King 

And whither, no one knew, but He who knows 

All things. 'T was frequent in the vulgar tale, 

None saw it, yet all knew them well that saw,* 

At midnight manifest a huge arm came 

Forth from the welkin ; once it waved and twice, 

And then it w'as not : but a bolt thrice fork'd. 

Each fork a spike of flame, burst on the roof. 

And all became a fire, and all fell down 

And smoulder'd, even as now the shapeless walls 

Lie in scorch'd heaps and black. At that same hour 

A dark steed and a darker rider past. 

With speed bemocking mortal steed, or man, 

Down the steep hill precipitous : 'twas like 

In shape and hue black Favorin, on whose back 

King Vortigern was wont to ride abroad ; 

Like, surely not the same, for fire came out 

From under his quick hoofs, and in his breath, 

And sulphurous the blasted foot-tracks smelt. 

Some dinted deep in the hard rock, some sear'd 

On meadow grass, where never since have dews 

Lain glittering, never the fresh verdure sprung. 

Now is the whole Isle vv'ar. But I must crave 
Pardon from those in meaner conflict slain. 
Or conquerors ; Poesy's fair treasure-house 
Contains not all the bright and rich, that gem 
The course of humankind ; in heaven alone 
Preserves enroll'd th' imperishable brass. 
In letters deep of amaranthine light. 
All martyrs to their country and their God. 

Oh that my spirit, holding the broad glass 
Of its invention, might at once condense 
All rays of glory from the kindling Isle 
Full emanating, as of old 'tis famed 
The philosophic Syracusan caught 
The wide diverging sunbeams, by the force 
Of mind creating to himself a right 
And property in nature's common gifts, 
And domineering the free elements. 
He that heaven-seized artillery pour'd forth 
To sear the high beaks of the 'siegi;ig fleet, 
That burnt, unknowing whence, 'raid the wet waves. 

* Henry Huntingdon, Hist. 



So I the fine immortal light would pour 
Abroad, in the long after-time to beam 
A consecrate and vestal fire, to guide 
Through danger's precipices wild, the slopes 
Sleepy and smooth of luxury and false bliss, 
All lovers of their country. They my song 
Embosoming within their heart of heart. 
Like mine own Samor should bear on, too strong 
To perish, and too haughty to despair. 
They happier, he uprearing on the sand 
A Pharos, steady for a while to stem 
The fierce assaulting waves, in after times 
To fall ; they building for eternity 
Britain's rock-founded temple of renown. 

In the Isle's centre is a champain broad. 
Now broken into corn-field and smooth mead. 
Near which a hill, now with the ruin'd towers 
Of Coningsborough (from that fight of Kings 
Named in old Saxon phrase), soars crested, Dune 
Skirls with her azure belt the level plain. 

Morn davvn'd with all her attributes, the slow 
Impearling of the heavens, the sparkling white 
On the webb'd gras.s, the fragrant mistiness. 
The fresh airs with the twinkling leaves at sport. 
And all the gradual and emerging light. 
The crystalline distinctness settling clear. 
And all the wakening and strengthening sound. 

There davvn'd she on a battle-field superb. 
The beauty that is war's embellishment. 
The splendour under whose quick-glancing pall 
Man proudly moves to slay and to be slain, 
How wonderful I In semicircle huge. 
Round that hill foot, the Saxon camps his strength, 
A many-colour'd dazzling cirque, more rich 
Than the autumnal woods, when the quick winds 
Shake on them broken sunlight, than the skies 
When thunder clouds are bursting into light. 
And rainbow-skirted hangs each fold, or fringed 
With liquid gold, so waved that crescent broad 
With moving fire, bloom'd all the field with brass : 
Making of dread voluptuousness, the sense 
Of danger in deep admiration lost — 
Oh beauteous if that morning had no eve! 

The Eastern horn, his tall steeds to his car 
Ilamess'd, whose scythes shone newly burnish'd, held 
Caswallon ; he his painted soldiery. 
Their naked breasts blue-gleaming with uncouth 
And savage portraitures of hideous things. 
Human and monstrous terribly combined. 
Array 'd ; himself no armour of defence 
Cumber'd, as he were one Death dare not slay, 
A being from man's vulgar lot exempt, 
Commission'd to destroy, yet dangerless 
Amid destruction, against whom war shower'd 
All its stored terrors, but still baffled back 
Recoil'd from his unwounded front serene. 

The centre were the blue-eyed Germans, loose 
Their fierce hair, various each strong nation's arms, 
A wild and terrible diversity 
In the fell skill of slaughter, in the art 

327 



318 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of doing sacrifice to death. Some heim'd. 

Whose visors like distended jaws appear'd 

Of sylvan monster, some in brinded furs 

Wrapt shaggy, on whose shoulders seem'd to ramp 

Yet liv.ing the fix'd claws ; with cross-bows some, 

Some with long lances, some with falchions curved. 

The Arian, wont to make the sable night 

A pander to his terrors,* in swarth arms 

He bursting from the forest, when the shades 

Were deepest, like embodied gloom advanced, 

Shaped for some dreadful purpose, now he moved 

Unnatural 'mid the clear and golden day. 

Here Hengist, Horsa there amid the troop 

Wound their war-horses ; he his weapon fell 

Shook, a round ball of iron spikes chain'd loose 

To a huge pike-stave, like a baleful star. 

Aye gleaming devastation in its sweep; 

Hengist begirt with that famed falchion call'd 

The " Widower of Women ;" over all 

The fatal White Horse in the banner shone. 

Round to the left Argantyr with the Jutes 

And Anglians; these for Offa's slaughter wild 

T' exact the usurious payment of revenge; 

He sternly mindful of that broken fight 

By Wye's clear stream, and his defrauded sword 

Of its hope-promised banquet, Samor's blood. 

Above the multitude of brass the heights 

Were crowded with the wives and mothers,! they 

With their known presence working shame of flight, 

And the high fear of being thought to fear. 

With them the spoils of Britain, vessels carved, 

Statues, and vestments of the Tyrian dye, 

Standards with antique legend scroll'd of deeds 

Done in old times, and gorgeous arms, and cups 

And lamps, and plate, or by fantastic art 

Minister'd to fond luxury's wayward choice, 

Or consecrate to th' altar use of God. 

And there the Saxon Gods, the wood and stone 
Whereto that people knelt and deified 
Their own hands' work ; the Father of the race, 
Woden, all arm'd and crown'd ; the tempest Lord, 
The thunder-shaking Thor.t twelve radiant stars 
His coronet, and sceptred his right hand ; 
He on his stately couch reclining : fierce 
In his mysterious multitude of signs, 
Arminsnl ; and th' Unnameable,§ he fix'd 
On his flint pedestal, his skeleton shape 
Garmented scantly in a winding-sheet, 
And in his hand a torch-blaze, meet to search 
Earth's utmost, while in act to spring, one hand 
Upon his head, upon his shoulder one, 



* Ceterum Arii super vires, quibus enumerates paullo ante 
populos antecedunt, truces, insitae ferltati arte ac tempore 
lenocinantur : nisra scuta, tinola corpora: alras ad projlia 
noctcs legunt; ipsaque Ibrmidine atque umbra feraliscxercitus 
terrorem inferunt, nullo hostium suslinente novum ac velutin- 
fernum aspectum: nam primi in omnibus proeliis oculi vincun- 
tur.— TACIT. Germ. c. 43. 

I — et in proximo piRnora; unde feminarum ululatus audiri, 
unde vagitus infanlium ; hi cuique sanctissimi testes, hi maxi- 
mi laudatores. Ad matres, ad conjueea vulnera ferunt: noc 
illae numerare, aut exigere plagas pavent. Cibosque et horta- 
mina pugnantibus gestant.— TAOIT. Germ. 

fVerstegan. ^Verstegan. 



His faithful Lion ramp'd in sculptured ire. 

Southward, with crescent ils out-stretching horns 

Circling the foe, lay stretch'd the British camp; 

The centre held King Emrys, on the right 

Pendragon, on the left th' Armoric King, 

With all his tall steeds and brave riders ; they 

The fathers of that famed chivalric race 

Of knights and ladies, glorious in old song, 

While-handed Iseult, Launcelot of the Lake, 

Chaste Perceval, that won the Sangreal quest. 

But everywhere and in all parts alike 

The Avenger held his post; all heard his voice^ 

All felt his presence, all obey'd his sway. 

As western hurricane whirls up from earth. 

And bears where'er it will, the loose-sheaf'd com, 

The fluttering leaves, the shatter'd forest boughs, 

Even so his spirit seized and bore along. 

And swept with it those proud brigades. Nor there 

Was not young Malvvyn, he his helmet wore 

Light shadow'd by an eagle plume, so sued 

His sire, lest in the wildering battle met 

Their cars should clash in impious strife, nor sought 

The father more obedience from the son. 

For Britain and with Samor fix'd to war. 

And in his brown and weather-beaten arms 

Came Vortimer, a pine-tree stem his mace 

That clove the air with desultory sweep. 

But by the river browsed a single steed, 

Sable as one of that poetic pair. 

On the fair plain of Enna, in the yoke 

Of Pluto, when Proserpina let fall 

From her soft lap her flowers, and mourn'd their loss 

Lavish, not for herself reserved her tears. 

The horseman, not unlike that ravisher. 

Wore kingly aspect, and his step and mien 

Were as his realm were in a gloomier clime, 

Amid a drearier atmosphere, 'mid things 

Sluggish and melancholy, slow and dead. 

As though disclaim'd by each, and claiming none. 

He lay with cold impartial apathy 

Eyeing both armies, as their fates to him 

Were equal, and not worth the toil of hope. 

But over either army silence hung. 
Silence long, heavy, deep, as every heart 
Were busied with eternity ; all thoughts 
Were bidding farewell to the Sun, whose rise 
They savi', whose setting they might never see. 
And all the heavens were thinly overdrawn 
With light and golden clouds, as though to couch 
The angels and the spirits floating there, 
While heaven the lucid hierarchy pour'd forth 
To view that solemn spectacle beneath, 
A Battle waged for freedom and for laith. 

First rose a clamour and a crowding rush 
On the hill side, and a half-stifled cry, 
"The Prophetess! the Prophetess ! was heard. 
Upon a wagon, 'mid her idol Gods, 
She of the seal'd lip and the haunted heart, 
The aged Virginll sate ; her thin grey hair 



II Vetere apud Germanos more, quo plerasque feminarum 
fatidicas, ct augescente superslitione, arbitrantur deas.— TAC. 
//.t.4-Gl. 3^ 



SAM OR. 



319 



And hollow eyes in a strange sparkling steep'd : 

Twice in the memory of the oldest spake 

Her voice, when Gothic Alaric had set 

His northern ensign on Rome's shatter'd walls, 

That day along the linden-shadow'd Elbe 

She went, with bitter smile and broken song 

That mock'd at grandeur fall'n and pride in dust. 

Once more, when Vortigern in that famed feast 

Crown'd the fierce Hengist ; in the German woods 

She roam'd with lofty and triumphal tone, 

Shrieking of sceptres dancing in her sight, 

And Woden's sons endiadem'd that rose 

And swept and glitter'd past her. Now with eye 

Restless, and churning lip, she sate, and thrice 

She mutier'd— "Flight! Flight! Flight!" Then look'd 

she out 
Upon the orient Sun, and cried, " Down ! down !" — 
Then westward turn'd she, and withdrew her hand, 
From dallying with her loose and hanging chin, 
And beckon'd to the faint remainmg haze 
Of twilight. " Back, fiiir darkness, beauteous gloom. 
Back!" Still the Sun came on, the shades dispell'd. 
Then rose she up, then on the vacant space 
Between both armies fix'd her eye ; half laugh, 
Half agony her cheek relax'd. — " I see, 
I see ye, ye Invisible ! I hear 
Soundless, I hear ye ! Choosers of the slain ! 
Ye of the white forms horsedon thunder clouds! 
Ye of Valhalla ! colourless as air. 
As air impalpable ! wind on and urge 
Your sable and self-govern 'd steeds : They come. 
They whom your mantling hydromel awaits. 
Whose cups are crown'd, the guests of this night's feast. 
They come, they come, for whom the Gods shall leap 
From their cloud thrones, and ask ye whom ye bring 
In stern troops crowding to their secret joy." 

She shook her low dropt lip, and thus went on: 
"The bow is broken, and the shafts are snapt: 
The lance is shiver'd, and the buckler rent; 

The helm is cloven, and the plumes are shed; 

The horse hath founder'd, and the rider fallen; 

The Crown'd are crownless, kingdomless the Kings; 

The Conquerors conquer'd, and the Slayers slain ; 

One falls not, but he shall not stand, the axe 

Shall glean th' imperfect harvest of the sword; 

The scaffold drinks the lees of battle's cup; 

And one is woundless amid myriad wounds. 

And one is wounded where there is but one. 

Ho, for the broad-horn'd Elk that leads the herd. 

Ho, for the Pine that tops the shattering wood ! 

Ho, for the Bark that admirals all the fleet! 

The herd is scatler'd, and the Elk unscathed, 

The wood is levell'd, upright is the Pine, 

The fleet is wreck'd, the Admiral on the waves. 

That Elk is in himself a sacrifice. 

That Pine shall have a storm its own, that Bark 

Shall perish in a solitary wreck, 

A sacrifice of shame ! a storm of dread ! 

A bitter ignominious solitude !" — 

She had not ended, when a single steed 
Burst furious from the British line, with flight 
That had a tread of air, and not of earth. 
27* 



Fierce and direct he whirl'd to the hot charge 

His.youthful Rider. Upright sate the Boy 

Arthur, at first with half reverted look, 

As to his mother to impart his joy. 

His transport. Eariy, oh fame-destined Child, 

Putst thou thy sickle in the field of fame. 

Over his head a dome of fiery darts 

And cross-bow bolts vault o'er th' encumber'd air. 

Yet forward swept the child his rapid charge, 

And all at once to rescue all the Chiefs 

Rush'd onward : Uther's dragon seem'd to sear 

The winds with its hot waving, Emrys struck 

His courser's reeking flanks, his weapon huge 

Rear'd Vortimer, and Malwyn's wheels 'gan whirl 

And on the other side Argantyr tall, 

Hengist and Horsa, all the titled brave. 

Burst from their tardy lines, that vast behind 

Came rolling in tumultuous order on ; 

As when at spring-time under the cold pole 

Two islands high of ice warp heavy and huge 

Upon the contrary currents, first th' assault 

The promontories break, till meet the whole 

With one long crash, that wakes the silence, there 

Seated since time was born, far off and wide 

Rock'd by the conflict fierce old ocean boils. 

Still th' upright Child seem'd only to rejoice 
In the curvetings of his wanton steed, 
And in the mingled dazzling of bright arms. 
But over him a shield is spread, before 
A sword is waved, on every side the shield 
Dashes rude death aside, whirls everywhere 
The rapid and unwearied sword ; the rein 
Of the fleet steed hath Samor grasp'd, and guides 
Amid the turmoil. As when the eagle sire 
Up in the sunshine leads his daring young. 
Sometimes the dusk shade of his wing spreads o'er. 
And soft and broken in through the thick plumes 
Gleams the unblinding splendour. So secure 
Waged that fair Child his early war. But wild 
The wavering fray rock'd to and fro, and burnt 
Like one huge furnace the quick-flashing plain. 
Ever as 't were the same the Apostle saw 
In the Apocalypse, Death's own pale steed. 
Over the broad fight shook the White Horse, spread 
Where'er its gleaming lighten'd the dun gloom. 
Steamy and vast the curdling slaughter pools. 
And such confusion burst around of lines 
Mingling and interchanging, Yalour found 
No space for proud selection, forced to strike 
What cumber'd and obstructed its free path. 
To hew out through a mass of vulgar life 
A passage to some princely foe ; twice met 
Horsa and Vortimer, Argantyr twice 
Smote at Pendragon, but the whirlpool fierce 
Asunder swept them, and the deep of war 
Swallow'd them ; many- a broad and shapeless chasm 
Was rent in either battle, but new fronts 
Rush'd in, and made the shiver'd surface whole. 
The sun was shut out by a sphere of dust 
That wrapt the tumult, 't was no sight for Heaven 
That rending and defacing its prime work. 
That waste of man, its masterpiece. But far 

329 



320 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Th' Avenger had borne off the Child, his steed 

First drew his breath before Igerna's tent. 

With her soft face upon the dust she lay, 

Struggling to hush her own lament, in hope 

From the fierce din of war might haply come 

Some sound of cheer and comfort ; but when full 

It rush'd upon her hearing, loud she shriek'd 

To drown the very noise she strove to hear. 

But when her Child's voice sounded, she look'd up 

With a cold glance which said, "That sound I've 

heard 
Every sad moment since he went, my soul 
Is sick of self-deception, will not trust 
Again, to be again beguiled." She saw. 
And forced a sportive look to her sad face 
To lure him to her snowy arms. While he 
Back to the battle, as a scene of joy, 
Look'd waywardly, she clasp'd him to her breast 
With a fond anger, and both smiled and wept. 
A moment Samor gazed on her, and — " All, 
All have their hopes, and all those hopes fulfill'd. 
But I, this side the grave, no hope for me 
And no fulfilment."— Fast as sight could track 
The battle felt him in its thousand folds. 

But the undistinguish'd and chance-mingled fight 
Brook'd not young Malwyn; he his virgin shield 
Disdain'd mean blood should stain : where Hengist 

fought 
He swept, the Saxon saw the eagle plume 
And turn'd aloof, and on some other head 
Discharged the blow for him uprear'd. But he 
Next plunged where Ilorsa's star-like weapon shone, 
Disastrous, shaking ruin, yet even that 
Glanced aside from the eagle plume. The Boy 
Utter'd a wrathful disappointed cry, 
And 'gainst Argantyr drove his car. He paused. 
And cried aloud, "The eagle plume," and plunged 
Elsewhere for victims. That Pendragon heard, 
Even as he toil'd the third time to make way 
Amid the circling slain to the Anglian crest. 
And taunting thus, — " Methinks the eagle plume 
Hath some few feathers of the dove, so soft 
Spreads its peace-breathing influence." But the Youth, 
"Ha, Father! thus, thus giiilest thou to a faint 
And infamous security thy son ? 
Thus enviest thou a noble foe ? thus gnardst 
With a base privilege from peril ? Ofi; 
Coward distinction! off, faint-hearted sign!" 
And helm and plume away he rent, his hair 
Curl'd down his shoulders, radiant on his brow 
The beauty of his anger shone, the pride 
Of winning thus a right to glorious death. 
Then set he forth on his bold quest again 
Impatient. Him Prince Vorlimer beheld 
Sweeping between himself and Horsa, met 
' Their sea-shore fight by Thatiet to renew ; 
But something of his sister in his face, 
Something of Lilian harden'd and grown fierce, 
As that ungodly creed were true, and she 
Familiar to rude deeds of blood, had come 
One of Valhalla's airy sisters hence 
To summon him she loved. That gleam of her, 



That though ungentle and unfeminine touch, 
Exquisite, in mid-air his rugged mace 
Suspended ; but fierce Horsa on the Boy, 
Just on his neck let fall the fatal spikes. 
And him the affrighted steeds bore off But then 
Began a combat over which Death seem'd 
To hover, as of one assured, in hope 
Of both for victims at his godless shrine. 

Then wounded and bareheaded Malwyn urged 
On Hengist his remaster'd steeds the scythe, 
Rased his majestic war-horse. But aside 
He sprung, and flank'd the chariot ; long the strife. 
Long though unequal, like a serpent's tongue 
Vibrated Malwyn's battle axe, twice bow'd 
The Monarch to his saddle-bow.— 'T was fame 
More splendid, thus with Hengist to have fought 
Than to have conquer'd hosts of meaner men. 
Heavy at length and fatal glided in 
The wily Chief's eluding falchion stroke; 
Fast flew the steeds, the Master lay behind. 
Dragging with his face downward, still the reins 
Cling in his cold and failing fingers, trail 
His neck and spread locks in the humid dust, 
His sharp arms character the yielding sand. 
On fly they, him at length deserting mute 
And gasping on the bank, their hot hoofs plunge 
Into the limpid Dune, and to the wood 
Rove on. It chanced erewhile that thither came 
To freshen with the water his spent steeds. 
And lave the clogging carnage from his wheels, 
Caswallon, he his huge and weary length 
Cast for brief rest upon the bank ; a groan 
Came from a helmless head that in the grass 
Lay undistinguish'd. " 'T is a Briton," cried 
Caswallon, " cast the carrion off to feed 
The dogs and kites, that thus irreverent breaks 
Upon its monarch's rest." Even as a flower, 
Poppy or hyacinth, on its broken stem, 
Languidly raises its encumber'd head. 
And turns it to the gentle evening sun. 
So feebly rose, so turn'd thai Boy his face 
Unto the vi'ell-known voice; twice raised his head. 
Twice it fell back in powerless heaviness; 
Even at that moment from the dark wood came. 
Lured by their partners in the stall and field. 
His chariot coursers, heavily behind 
Dragging the vacant car, loose hung the reins, 
And moiirnfulness, and dull disorder slack'd 
The spirit of their tread. Caswallon knew. 
And he leap'd up ; the Boy his bloodless lips 
With a long effort opened. " Was it well. 
Father, at this my first, my earliest fight 
To mock me with a baflfled hope of fame ? 
Well was it to defraud me of my right 
To noble death 1" — and speaking thus he died. 

Above iiim his convulsed unconscious hands 
Horribly with his rough black beard at play, 
Wrencliing and twisting off the rooted locks, 
Yet senseless of the pain, the Father lean'd. 
Then leap'd he up, with cool and jealous care 
Within his chariot placed the lifeless corpse. 
And with his lash fierce rent the half-unvoked 

330 



SAMOR. 



321 



Half-harness'd steeds; disorderly and swift 

As with their master's ire instinct they flew, 

Making a wide road through the hurtling fray. 

Briton or Saxon, friend or foe alike, 

Kinsman or stranger, one wide enmity 

'Gainst general humankind, one infinite 

And undistinguishing lust of carnage fill'd 

The Master and the Horses; so wild groans 

Follovv'd where'er he moved, 'twas all to him, 

So slaughter dripp'd and reek'd from the choked 

scythes. 
The low lay mow'd like the spring grass, down swept 
On th' eminent, like lightning on the oaks. 
His battle-axe, each time it fell, each time 
A life was gone, each time a hideous laugh 
Shone on the Slayer's cheek and writhing lip; 
As in the Oriental wars where meet 
Sultan and Orarah, under his broad tower 
Moves stately the huge Elephant, a shaft 
Haply casts down his friendly rider, wont 
To lead him to the tank, whose children shared 
With him their (east of fruits : awhile he droops 
Affectionate his loose and moaning trunk; 
Then in his grief and vengeance bursts, and bears 
In his feet's trampling rout and disarray 
To either army, ranks give way, and troops 
Scatter, while, swaying on his heaving back 
His tottering tower, he shakes the sandy plain. 
Meanwhile had risen a conflict high and fierce 
For Britain's royal banner; Hengist here, 
Arganlyr, the Vikinger, Hermingard, 
And other Chiefs. But there th' Armoric King, 
Emrys and Uther, with the Avenger stood, 
An iron wall against their inroad; turn'd 
Samor 'gainst him at distance heard and seen. 
The car-borne Mountaineer, then Uther met 
Argantyr, Hengist and King Emrys fought, 
The rest o'erbore King Hoel ; one had slain 
The standard-bearer, and all arms at once 
Seized as it fell, all foreign and all foes. 
When lo, that sable Warrior, that retired 
And careless had look'd on, upon his steed 
And in the battle, like a thundercloud 
He came, and like a tlumdercloud he burst. 
Black, cold and sullen, conquering without pride 
And slaying without triumph ; three that grasp'd 
The standard came at once to earth, while he 
Over his head with kingly motion sway'd 
The bright redeemed en.sign. and as fell 
The shaken sunlight radiant o'er his brow, 
Pride came about him, and with voice like joy 
He cried aloud, "Aries! Aries !" — and shook his sword, 
" Thou 'st won me once a royal crown, and now 
Shalt win a royal sepulchre." — The sword 
Perform'd its fatal duty, down they fell 
Before him, Jule and Saxon, nameless men 
And Chieftains ; what though wounds he scom'd to 

ward, 
Nor seem'd to feel, shower'd on him, and his blood 
Oozed manifest.still he slew, still cried, "Aries! Aries!" 
Still in the splendour the waved standard spread 
Stood glorying the arm'd darkness of his form ; 



Stood from his wounded steed dismounted, stood 

Amid an area of dead men, himself 

About to die, none daring an assault, 

He powerless of assailing. But the crowTl 

That on the flag-staff gleam'd, he wrench'd away, 

And on his crest with calm solicitude 

Placed it, then planting 'mid the high-heap'd slain 

The standard, to o'ercanopy his sleep. 

As one upon his nightly couch of down 

Composes quietly his weary head. 

So royally he laid him down to die. — 

But now was every fight broke off, a pause 
Seized all the battle, one vast silence quench'd 
All tumult; slain and slayer, life and death 
Possess'd one swoon of torpor, droop'd and fail'd 
All passions, pride, wrath, vengeance, hate, dismay, 
All was one wide astonishment: alone 
Two undistracted on each other gazed. 
Where helpless in their dealh-blood they lay steep'd. 
The ebbing of each other's life, the stiff 
Damp growing on of death ; till in a groan 
Horsa exhausted his fierce soul ; then came 
A momentary tinge, soft and subdued 
As of affections busy at his heart. 
On Vortimer's expiring brow, his lip 
Wore something of the curl men's use, when names 
Beloved are floating o'er the thought, the flowers 
On that lone grave made fragrant his sick sense. 
And Eamont murmur'd on his closing ear. 

But he, whose coming cast this silence on 
Before it, as the night its widening shade. 
Curtaining nature in its soundless pall, 
An atmosphere of dying breath where'er 
He moved, his drear envelopment, his path 
An element of blood: so fleet, so fast 
The power to fly seem'd vvither'd, ere he came. 
Men laid them down and said their prayers and look'd 
For the quick plunging hoofs and rushing scythes : 
As when the palsied Universe aghast 
Lay, all its tenants, even Man, restless Man, 
In all his busy worldngs mute and still, 
When drove, so poets sing, the Sun-born youth 
Devious through heaven's affrighted signs, his Sire's 
Ill-granted chariot, him the Thunderer hurl'd 
From th' empyrean headlong to the gulf 
Of the half-parch'd Eridanus, where weep 
Even now the Sister Trees their amber tears 
O'er Phaeton untimely dead. And now- 
Had the Avenger reach'd the path of death. 
And stood in arms before the steeds, they came 
Rearing their ireful hoofs to dash him down ; 
But w ith both hands he seized their foaming curbs. 
Holding them in flieir spring with outstretch'd arm 
Aloft, and made their lifted crests a shield 
Against their driver. He with baffled lash 
Goaded their quivering flanks, but that strong arm 
Held them above avoiding, their fore-hoofs 
Beat th' unhurt air, and overspread his breast, 
Like a thick snow-shower, the fast falling foam. 
Then leap'd Caswallon down, back Samor hurl'd 
Coursers and chariot, and, "Now,"' cried aloud, 

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322 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Now, King of Britain, in the name of God 
I tender thee a throne, two yards of earllj 
To rot on, and a diadem, a wreath 
Of death-drops for thy haught aspiring brow." 

"There, there, look there," Caswallon cried, his hand 
Stretch'd tow'rd his son, and in a frantic laugh 
Broke out, and echoed, — " Diadems and thrones!" 
With rigid finger pointing at the dead. 

A moment, and the fury burst again ; 
Down came the ponderous battle-axe, from edge 
To edge it rived the temper'd brass, a-s swift 
As shot-stars the thin ether; but the glaive 
Of Samor right into his bosom smote. 
Like some old turret, under whose broad shade 
At summer noon the shepherd oft his flock 
Hath driven, and in the friendly cool rejoiced, 
Suddenly, violently, from its base 
Push'd by the winter floods, he fell ; his look 
Yet had its savage blasphemy : he felt 
More than the blow, the deadly blow, the cries 
Of joy and triumph from each army sent, 
Vaunting and loud ; to him to die was nought, 
He could not brook the shame of being slain. 
But other thoughts arose ; hardly he crept 
To where dead Malwyn from the car hung down, 
Felt on his face the cold depending hand. 
And with a smile, half joy half anguish, died. 

Th' Avenger knelt, his heart too full for prayer. 
Knelt, and held up his conquering sword to heaven, 
Yet spake not. But the battle, as set free, 
Its rugged game renew'd, nor equal now 
Nor now unbroken. Flight and shameful Rout 
Here scatter'd. Victory there and Pride array'd, 
And mass'd in comely files and full square troops 
Bore onward. Mountaineer and German break 
Around the hill foot, and like ebbing waves 
Disperse away. Argantyr, Hengist move 
In the recoiling flood reluctant. Them 
Nought more resembled, than two mountain bulls 
Driven by the horse and dog and hunter's spear, 
Still turning with huge brow and tearing up 
The deep earth with their wrathful stooping horns. 

But as the hill was open'd, from the top 
Even to the base arose a shriek and scream, 
As when some populous Capital besieged. 
Sees yawning her wide-breach'd wall, and all 
Her shatter'd bulwarks on the earth, so wild. 
So dissonant the female rout appear'd 
Hanging with fierce disturbance the hill side. 
Some with rent hair ran to and fro, some stood 
With silent mocking lip, some soitly prest 
Their infants to their heart, some held them forth 
As to invite the foe, and for them sued 
The mercy of immediate slaughter. Some 
Spake fiercely of pa.st deeds of fame, some sang 
In taunting tone old songs of victory. Wives, 
With eye imploring and quick-heaving breast, 
Look'd sad allusions to endearments past ; 
Mothers, all bashfulness cast down, rent down 
Their garments, to their sons displaying bare 



The fountains of their infant nourishment, 

Now ready to be plough 'd with murtherous swords. 

Some knelt before their cold deaf Gods, some scoff'd 

With imprecation blasphemous and shrill 

Their stony and unwakening thunders. Noise 

Not fiercer on Cithaeron side, th' affright 

Not drearier, when the Theban Bacchic rout. 

Their dashing cymbals white with moonshine, loose 

Their tresses bursting from their ivy crowns, 

And purple with enwoven vine-leaves, led 

Their orgies dangerous. In the midst the Queen 

Agave shook the misdeem'd Lion's head 

Aloft, and laugh'd and danced and sung, nor knew 

That lion suckled at her own white breast. 

But Elfelin the Prophetess her seat 
Changed not, nor the near horror could recall 
Her eye from its strange commerce with th' unseen ; 
There had she been, there had she been in smiles 
All the long battle ; just before the spear 
Or falchion drank a warrior's life-blood, she 
Audible, as a high-tribunal'd judge. 
Spake out his name, and aye her speech was doom. 

Nor long the o'erbearing flight enwrapt thy strength, 
Argantyr! thou amid the shattering wreck 
Didst rise as in some ruinous city old, 
Babylon or Palmyra, magic built, 
A single pillar yet with upright shaft 
Stands, 'mid the wide prostration mossy and flat, 
Showing more eminent. Past the Saxon by. 
And look'd and wonder'd, even that he delay'd ; 
Cried his own Anglians — " King, away, away !" 
First came King Hoel on, whose falchion clove 
His buckler, with a wrest he burst in twain 
The shivering steel ; came Emrys next, aside 
His misaim'd blow he shook; last Uther, him 
His war-horse, by Argantyr's beam-like spear 
Then first appall'd, bore in vain anger past. 

From his late victory in proud breathlessness 
Slow came the Avenger, but Argantyr raised 
A cry of furious joy : " Long sought, late found, 
I charge thee, by our last impeded fight, 
I charge thee, give me back mine own, my sword 
Is weary of ils bathes of vulgar blood, 
And longs in nobler streams to plunge; with thine 
I '11 gild and hang it on my Father's grave. 
And his helm'd ghost in Woden's hall shall vaunt 
The glories of his son." " Generous and brave. 
When last we met, I shrunk to see my sword 
Bright with God's sunlight, now with dauntless hand 
I lift it, and cry On, in the name of God." 

They met, they strove, as with a cloud enwrapt 
In their own majesty; their motions gave 
Terror even to their shadows : round them spread 
Attention like a sleep. Flight paused, Pursuit 
Caught up its loose rein. Death his furious work 
Ceased, and a dreary respite gave to souls 
Half parted ; on their elbows rear'd them up 
The dying, with faint effort holding ope 
Their dropping eyelids, homage of delight 
War from its victims thus exacting. Mind 

332 



SAMOR. 



323 



And body engross'd the conflict. Men were seen 

At distance, for in their peculiar sphere, 

Within the wind and rush of their quick arms 

None ventured, following with nnconscious limbs 

Their blows, and shrinking as themselves were struck. 

Like scatter'd shiverings of a scathed oak, lay 

Fragments of armour round them, the hard brass 

Gave way, and broke the fiery temper'd steel. 

The stronger metal of the human soul. 

Valour, endured, and power thrice purified 

In danger's furnace fail'd not. Victory, tired 

Of wavering, to those passive instruments, 

Look'd to decide her long suspense. Behold 

Argantyr's falchion, magic-wrought, his sires 

So fabled, by the Asgard dwarfs, nor hewn 

From earthly mines, nor dipp'd in earthly fires, 

Broke short. Th' ancestral steel the Anglians saw, 

Sign of their Kings, and worship of their race, 

Give way, and wail'd and shriek'd aloud. The King 

Collected all his glory as a pall 

To perish in, and scorn'd his sworded foe 

To mock with vain defence of unarm'd hand. 

The exultation and fierce throb of hope 

Yet had not pass'd away, but look'd to death 

As it had look'd to conquest, death so well. 

So bravely earn'd to warrior fair as life : 

Stern welcoming, bold invitation lured 

To its last work the Conqueror's sword. Him flush'd 

The pride of Conquest, vengeance long delay'd, 

Th' exalted shame of victory won so slow, 

So toilsomely ; all fiery passions, all 

Tumultuous sense-intoxicating powers 

Conspired with their wild anarchy beset 

His despot soul. But he — "Ah, faithless sword, 

To me as to thy master faithless, him 

Naked at his extreme to leave, and me 

To guile of this occasion fair to win 

Honour or death from great Argantyr's arm." 

" Christian, thy God is mightiest, scorn not thou 
His bounty, nor with dalliance mock thy hour — 
Strike and consummate !"— "Anglian, yes ; my God, 
Th' Almighty, is the mightiest now and ever. 
Because I scorn him not. I will not strike." — 
So saying, he his sword cast down. " Thus, thus 
Warr'st thou ?" the Anglian cried, "then thou hast won. 
I, I Argantyr yield me, other hand 
Had tempted me in vain with that base boon 
Which peasants prize and women weep for, life : 
To lord o'er dead Argantyr fate might grant, 
He only grants to vanquish him alive, 
Only to thee, well named Avenger!" Then 
The Captive and the Conqueror th' armies saw 
Gazing upon each other with the brow 
Of high arch'd admiration; o'er the field 
From that example flow'd a noble scorn 
Of slaughtering the defenceless, mercy slaked 
The ardour of the fight. As the speck'd birch 
After a shower, with th' odour of its bark 
Freshens the circuit of the rain-bright grove ; 
Or as the tender argent of Love's star 
Smiles to a lucid quiet the wild sky : 
2Q 



So those illustrious rivals with the light 

Of their high language and heroic act 

Cast a nobility o'er all the war. 

That capture took a host, none scorn'd to yield, 

So loftily Argantyr wore the garb 

Of stern surrender, none inclined to slay. 

When Samor held the signal up to spare. 

But where the Lord of that dire falchion named 
The Widower of Women ? He, the Chief 
Whose arms were squadrons, whose assault the shock 
Of hosts advancing? Hath the cream-blanched steed. 
Whom the outstripp'd winds pant after, borne away 
His master, yet with hope uncheck'd, and craft 
Unbafl^ed, th' equal conflict to renew ? 
Fast flew the horse, and fierce the rider spurr'd. 
That horse that all the day remorseless went 
O'er dead and dying, all that Hengist slew- 
All he cast down before him. Lo, he checks 
Suddenly, startingly, with ears erect. 
Thick tremor oozing out from every pore. 
His broad chest palpitating, the thick foam 
Lazily gathering on his dropping lip: 
The pawing of his uplift forefoot chill'd 
To a loose hanging quiver. Nor his Lord 
Less horror seized ; slack trembled in his Icf^ 
The bridle, with his right hand dropt his sword, 
Dripp'd slowly from its point the flaking blood 
Of hundreds, this day fall'n beneath its edge. 

For lo, descended the hill side, stood up 
Right in his path the Prophetess, and held 
With a severe compassion both her arms 
Over her head, and thus — " It cannot be, 
I 've cried unto the eagle, air hath none ; 
1 've sued unto the fleet and bounding deer, 
I 've sought unto the sly and mining snake ; 
There 's none above the earth, beneath the earth. 
No flight, no W'ay, no narrow obscure way. 
I've call'd unto the hghtning, as it leap'd 
Along heaven's verge, it cannot guide thee forth ; 
I 've beckon 'd to the dun and pitchy gloom, 
It cannot shroud thee ; to the caves of earth 
I 've wail'd and shriek'd, they cannot chamber thee." 

He spoke not, moved not, strove not : man and steed, 
Like some equestrian marble in the courts 
Of Emperors: that fierce eye whose wisdom keen 
Pierced the dark depths of counsel, hawk-like roved, 
Seizing the unutter'd thoughts from out men's souls, 
Wrought order in the battle's turbulent fray 
By its command, on the aged Woman's face 
Fix'd like a moonstruck idiot. She upright 
With strength beyond her bow'd and shrivell'd limbs 
Still stood, and murmur'd low. "Why comest thou not. 
Thou of the Vale? thou filled, come! tome! come!" 

The foes o'ertook, he look'd not round, their tramp 
Was round him, still he moved not; violent hands 
Seized on him, still the enchanted falchion hung 
Innocent as a feather by his side. 
They tore him from his steed, still clung his eyes 
On her disastojus face ; she fiercely shriek'd 

333 



324 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Half pride at her accomplish'd prophecy. 
Half sorrow at Erie Hengist's fall, then down 
Upon the stone that bore her, she fell dead. 



BOOK xir. 



Oh Freedom, of our social Universe 
The Sun, that feedest from thy urn of light 
The starry commonwealth, from those mean lamps 
Modestly glimmering in their sphere retired 
Even to the plenar and patrician orbs, 
That in their rich nobility of light, 
Or golden royalty endiadem'd. 
Their mystic circle undisturb'd round thee 
Move musical ; but thou thy central state 
Preserving, equably the fair-rank'd whole 
In dutiful magnificence maintain'st, 
And stately splendour of obedience. Earth 
Wonders, th' approval of th' Almighty beams 
Manifest in the glory of the work. 
Though sometimes drown'd within the red eclipse 
Of tyranny, or brief while by the base 
And marshy exhalations of low vice 
And popular license madden 'd thou hast flash'd 
Disastrous and intolerable fire ; 
Yet ever mounting hast thou still march'd on 
To thy meridian throne. My waxen wing 
Oh, quenchless luminary ! may not soar 
To that thy dazzling and o'erpowering noon; 
Rather the broken glimpses of thy dawn 
Visiteth, when thy orient overcast 
A promise and faint foretaste of its light 
Beam'd forth, then plunged its cloud-slaked front in 
gloom. 

Even with such promise dost thou now adorn 
Thy chosen city by the Thames, where holds 
Victorious Emrys his high Judgment court. 
Thither the long ovation hath he led. 
Amid the solemn music of rent chains, 
The rapture of deliverance; where he past 
Earth brightening, and the face of man but now 
Brow-sear'd with the deep brand of servitude, 
To its old upright privilege restored 
Of gazing on its kindred heaven. The towns 
Gladden'd amid their ruins, churches shook 
With throngs of thankful votaries,* till 't was fear 
Transport might finish Desolation's work. 
And bliss precipitate the half moulder'd walls. 
'Tis famed, men died for joy, untimely births 
Were frequent, as the eager mothers prest 
To show their infants to the brightening world. 
They that but now beheld the bier-borne dead 
With miserable envy, past them by 
Contemptuously pitying, as too soon 
Departed from this highly gifted earth. 
So they the Trinobantine City reach'd. 



*Then did Aurelius Ambrosius put the Saxons out of all 
other parts of the land, and repaired such cities, towns, and 
also churches, as by them had been destroyed or defaced, etc. 
HoU. Book 6, Chap. 8. 



Without the walls, close by the marge of Thames, 
The synod of the Conquerors met; a place 
Solemn and to the soul discoursing high. 
Here broad the bridgeless Thames, even like them- 
selves 
Thus at their flush and high tide of renown, 
Swell'd his exulting waters. There all waste 
The royal cemetery of Britain lay. 
The monuments, like their cold tenantry, 
Mouldering, above all ruin as beneath, 
A wide profound, drear sameness of decay. 
Upon the Church of Christ had heavily fallen 
The Pagan desolation, hung the doors ' 
Loose on their broken and disused hinge. 
And grass amid the chequer'd pavement squares 
Was springing, and along the vacant choir 
The shrill wind was God's only worshipper. 

Even where they met, through the long years have 
sate 
In Parliament our nation's high and wise. 
There have deep thoughts been ponder'd, strong de- 
signs 
On which the fate of the round world hath hung. 
Thence have the emanating rays of truth, 
Freedom, and constancy, and holiness 
Flow'd in their broad beneficence, no bound 
Owning but that which limits this brief earth, 
Brightening this misty state of man ; the winds 
That thence bear mandates to th' inconstant thrones 
Of Europe, to the realms of th' orient Sun, 
Or to the new and ocean-sever'd earth. 
Or to the Southern cocoa-feather'd isles, 
Are welcome, as pure gales of health and joy. 
Still that deep dwelling underneath the earth ~ 
Its high and ancient privilege maintains. 
Dark palace of our island's parted Kings. 
Earth-ceil'd pavilion of our brave and wise, 
Whose glory ere it swept them off, hath cast 
A radiance on the scythe of Death. Disused 
For two long heathen ages, it became 
The pavement of our sumptuous minster fair, 
That ever and anon yet gathers in 
King, Conqu'ror, Poet, Orator, or Sage 
To her stone chambers, there to sleep the sleep 
That wakens only at the Archangel's trump. 

First in the synod rose King Emrys; he 
The royal sword of justice from his side 
Ungirding, placed it in the .Avenger's hand. 
And led him to the judgment-seat. He shrunk, 
And offer'd back the solemn steel — " Oh ! King, 
Judge and Avenger! who shall reconcile 
The discord of those titles, private wrongs 
Will load my partial arm, and drag to earth 
The unsteady balance. Only God can join 
And blend in one the Injured and the Judge." 
But as a wave lifts up and bears along 
A stately bark, so the acclamation swell 
Floated into the high Tribunal throne 
Reluctant Samor : on his right the King 
Sate sceptred, royal Uther on the left. 
While all around the assembled Nation bask'd 

334 



SAMOR. 



325 



In his effulgent presence. 'T was a boast 

In after ages this day to have seen 

Him whom all throng'd to see ; memory of him, 

Every brief notice of his mien and height 

Become an heir-loom ; mothers at the font 

Gave to their babes his name, and e'er that child 

Was held the staff and honour of the race. 

So met the Nation in their judgment Hall, 
Its pavement was the sacred mother earth, 
lis roof the crystal and immortal heavens. 

Then forth the captives came, Argantyr first, 
Even with his wonted loftiness of tread : 
Nature's rich heraldry upon his brow 
Emblazing him of those whose scorn the world 
Bears unashamed, by whom to be despised 
Is no abasement. Men's eyes ranged from him 
To Samor, back to him — in wonder now 
Of conquest o'er such mighty foe, now lost 
The wonder in their kindred Conqueror's pride. 
Then said the Anglian — "Wherefore lead ye here?" 
The sternness of his questioning appall'd 
All save the Judge. — "What Briton," he replied, 
" Witnesseth aught against the Anglian Chief?" — 
Thereat was proclamation, East and West 
And North and South : the silent winds came back 
With wings unloaded: so that noble mien 
Wrought conquest o'er man's darkest passions, hate. 
And doubt, and terror, so the Captive cast 
His yoke on every soul, and harness'd it 
Unto his valiant spirit's chariot wheels. 

Then spake the stately and tribunal'd Judge — 
" Anglian Argantyr ! Britain is not wont 
T' inflict upon a fair and open foe 
Aught penal but defeat ; her warfare bows 
Beneath her feet, but tramples not ; her throne 
Hath borne the stormy brunt of thy assault. 
And dash'd it off and thus she saith, " Return, 
Return unto thy German woods, nor more. 
Once baffled, vex our coasts with fruitless war. 
And thy return shall be to years remote 
Our bond and charter of security; 
A shudder and cold trembling at our name 
Shall pass with thee, the land that hath spurn'd back 
Argantyr's march of victory, shall be known 
T' eternal freedom consecrate. Your ships 
Shall plough our seas, but turn their timorous prows 
Aloof, while on the deck the Sea King points 
To our white cliffs, and saiih — "The Anglian thence 
Retreated, shun the unconquerable shore." — 
" So never more shall my hot war-horse bathe 
In British waters, nor my falchion meet 
The bold resistance of a British steel. 
So wills the Conqueror, thus the Conquer'd swears." 

Thus spake Argantyr; sudden then and swift. 
Loftier shot up his brow, prophetic hues 
Swam o'er his agilated features, words 
Came with a rush and instantaneous flow. — 

I " I tell thee, Briton, that thy sons and mine 
1 Shall be two meeting and conflicting tidesj 
Whose fierce relentless enmity shall lash 



This land into a whirlpool deep and wide. 

To swallow in its vast insatiate gulf 

Her peace and smooth felicity, till flow 

Their waters reconciled in one broad bed, 

Briton and Anglian one in race and name. 

'Tis written in the ancient solemn Runes, 

'T is spoken by prophetic virgin lips. 

Avenger, thou and I our earthly wars 

Have ended, but my spirit yet shall hold 

Noble, inexorable strife with thine. 

It shall heave off its barrow, burst its tomb, 

And to my sons discourse of glorious foes 

In this rich Island to be met : my shade 

Shall cross them in their huntings, it shall walk 

The ocean paths, and on the winds, and seize 

Their prows, and fill their sails, and all its voice' 

And all its secret influences urge 

To the White Isle ; * their slumbers shall not rest, 

Their quiet shall be weariness, till luU'd 

Upon the pillow of success repose 

The high, the long hereditary feud." 

So saying, he the bark that lay prepared 

With sail unfurl'd, ascended. She went forth 

Momently with quick shadow the blue Thames 

Darkening, then leaving on its breast a light 

Like silver. The fix'd eyes of wondering men 

Track'd his departure, while with farewell gleam 

The bright Sun shone upon his brow, and seera'd 

A triumph in the motion of the stream ; 

So loftily upon its long slow ebb 

It bore that honour-laden bark. — Nor pause, 

Lo in the presence of the Judgment Court 

The second criminal : pride had not pass'd 

Nor majesty from his hoar brow ; he stood 

With all except the terror of despair. 

Consciously in fatality's strong bonds 

Manacled, of the coming death assured. 

Yet fronting the black future with a look 

Obdurate even to scornfulness. He seem'd 

As he heard nought, as though his occupied ears 

Were pervious to no sound, since that dim voice 

Of her who speaking died, the silver hair'd, 

The Prophetess, that never spake untrue : 

As ever with a long unbroken flow 

Her song was ranging through his brain, and struck 

Its death-knoll on his soul. Nor change had come 

Since that drear hour to eye or cheek; the craft. 

The wisdom that was wont to make him lord 

Over the shifting pageant of events. 

Had given its trust up to o'er-ruling fate. 

And that stern Paramount, Necessity, 

Had seal'd him for her own. Amid them all 

He tovver'd, as when the summer thunderbolt 

'Mid a rich fleet some storm-accustom'd bark 

Hath stricken, round her the glad waters dance. 

Her sails are full, her strong prow fronts the waves ; 

But works within the irrevocable doom. 

Wells up her secret hold th' inundant surge. 

And the heavy waters weigh her slowly down. 



* The Welsh called it Inis Wen, the While Island. Speed, 
B. 5. c. 2. Some derive Britain from Pryd Cain— Beauty and 
White. -Ibid 

335 



326 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For the arraignment made the Judge a sign, 
And the first witness was a mighty cry, 
As 'twere the voice of the whole Isle, hills 
And plains and waters their abhorrence spake ; 
Hoarse harmony of imprecation seem'd 
To break the ashy sleep of ruin'd towns, 
And th' untomb'd slumbers of far battle vales. 
As if the crowd about the Judgment Court 
Did only with articulate voice repeat 
What indistinct came down on every wind. 
Then all the near, the distant, sank away, 
Only a low and melancholy tone, 
Like a far music down a summer stream 
Remain'd ; upon the lull'd, nor panting air 
Fell that smooth snow of sound, till nearer now 
It swell'd, as clearer water-falls are heard 
When midnight grows more still. A funeral hymn, 
It pour'd the rapture of its sadness out, 
Even like a sparkling soporific wine. 
But now and then broke from its low long fall. 
Something of martial and majestic swell. 
That spake its mourning o'er no vulgar dead. 

Lo to the royal buryihg-place, chance borne 
Even at this solemn lime, or so ordain'd 
From their bright-scutcheon'd biers their part to bear 
In this arraignment, came King Vortigern, 
And th' honour'd ashes of his Son. But still 
And voiceless these cold witnesses past on, 
Unto the place of tombs. Along the Thames 
Far floated into silence the spent hymn : 
And one accusing sound arose from them. 
The heavy falling of their earth to earth. 

One female mourner came behind the King, 
Half of her face the veil conceal'd, her eyes 
Were visible, and though a deadly haze 
Film'd their sunk balls, she sent into the grave. 
Following the heavy and descending corpse, 
A look of such imploring loveliness, 
A glance so sad, so self-condemning, all 
(So softly, tremulously it appeal'd) 
Might wonder that the spirit came not back 
To animate for the utterance that she wish'd 
Those bloodless lips : forgiveness it was plain 
She sought, and one so beauteous to forgive. 
The dead might almost wake. And she sate down. 
Leaning her cheek upon a broken stone 
(Once a King's monument) as listening yet 
Th' acceptance of her prayers ; nor cloister'd Nun 
Hath ever since mourning her broken vows, 
And his neglect for whom those vows she broke. 
Come to the image of her Virgin Saint 
With such a faded cheek and contrite mien, 
As her who by those royal ashes sate. 

But lo, new witnesses : a matron train 
In flowing robes of grief came forth, the wives 
And mothers of those nobles foully slain 
At the Peace banquet, them the memory yet 
Seem'd haunting of delicious days broke ofE 
On Hengist, even a captive, dared not they 
Look firmly, as their helpless loneliness 



Spake for thera, they their solitary breasts 

Beat, wrung their destitute cold hands, and pass'd. 

Arose the mitred Germain, glanced his hand 
From that majestic criminal, where lay 
The ruins of God's church, and so sate down. 

But Samor look'd upon the mourner train. 
As though he sought a face that was not there. 
That eould not be, soft Emeric's. — " I have none, 
I only none to witness of my wrongs." — 
So said he, but he shook the softness off; 
On the tribunal rose severe, and stood 
Erect before the multitude. " Thou liing. 
And ye, assembled People of the Isle, 
If that I speak your sentence right, give in 
Your sanction of Amen. Here stands the man. 
Who two long years laid waste with fire and sword 
Your native cities and your altar shrines : 
Here stands the man, who by slow fraud and guile 
Discrown'd your stately Monarch, Vortigern : 
Here stands the man, hath water'd with your blood 
The red and sickening herbage of your land : 
Here stands the man, that to your peaceful feast 
Brought Murther, that grim seneschal, and drugg'd 
With your most noble blood your friendly cups." 

And at each charge came in the deep Amen, 
Even like the sounds men hear on stormy nights, 
When many thunders are abroad. Nought moved. 
Stood Hengist, if emotion o'er him pass'd, 
'T was likest an elate contemptuous joy 
And glorying in those lofty worded crimes. 
Then, " Saxon Hengist, as thy sword hath made 
Our children fatherless, so fatherless 
Must be thy children!"* And Amen knoll'd back, 
Asa plague- visited Metropolis 
Mourning the wide and general funeral, tolls 
From all her towers and spires the bell of death. 

" Thy children fatherless ! not so — not so" — 
Rose with a shriek that Woman by the grave. 
And she sprang forth, as from beneath the earth, 
As a partaker of, no mourner near 
That kingly coffin. Veil fell off] and band 
Started, through her bright tresses her pale face 
Glitter'd, like purest ivory chased in gold. 
Between the Criminal and Judge her stand 
Rowena took ; him as she saw and knew 
Flush'd a sick rapture o'er her face and neck, 
A fading rose-hue, like eve's parting light 
On a snow bank ; but from her marble brow 
She the bright-clustering hair wiped back, and thus; 
" Samor, the last time thou this brow beheld'st 
The moonlight was upon it, since that hour 
The water hath flow'd o'er it, holy sign 
Hath there been left by Christian hand, and I 
Thy creed have learnt, and one word breathes it all 
Mercy." — " But Justice is God's attribute, 
Lady, as well as mercy, Man on earth 
Must be Vicegerent of both stern and mild. 
Lest over-ramping Evil set its foot 

*The words used to Agag were applied on this occasion, 
according to the Welsh tradition. — Robert's Translation of 
the Brul of Tysilio. 

336 



SAMOR. 



327 



Upon the prostrate world. The doom is said, 

The doom must be." — " Ha ! Man with heart of clay, 

To answer with that cold and steadfast mien ; 

Oh, I 'II go back and sue the dead .again, 

There 's more forgiveness in the cold deaf corpse 

Than the warm keen-ear'd livmg. From that vault 

I felt sweet reconcilement stealing up, 

That turn'd my tears to honey dew : here, ail, 

All sullen and relentless on me glares. 

I ask not for myself, not for myself. 

The ice of death is round my heart, there long 

I 've felt the slow consuming prey, I feel 

The trembling ebb of my departmg life. 

That hoary head, though granted to my prayers, 

Shall never rest upon my failing knee, 

The father that ye give me back (I feel 

Ye give him, thou that bear'st the Avenger's name, 

I know thee by a milder character,) 

That father cannot long be mine ; his hands 

May lay me in the grave, his eyes may weep 

For they can weep, although ye think it not ; 

Those hands ye deem for ever blood-embrued, 

I 've felt them fondling with my golden hair. 

When with gay childish foot I danced to meet 

His far-resounding horn. That horn shall sound, 

But on my deaf and earth-closed ears no more. 

No more." — " Rovvena, when a Nation speaks, 

The irrevocable sentence cannot change." 

Then up her fair round arm she raised, and wrapt 
Like a rich mantle round her; her old pride 
As the poetic Juno in the clouds 
Walking in her majestic ire, while slow 
Before her th' azure-breasted peacocks draw 
Her chariot. — "Tell me, thou that sitt'st elate, 
And ye, who call yourself this British realm, 
By what new right ye judge a German King? 
Where are your charters, where your scrolls of law 
Whose bright and blazon'd titles give ye power 
To pass a doom on crowned head ? Down, down. 
Ye bold Usurpers of the Judgment seat, 
Insolent doomers of a sacred life. 
Beyond your sphere to touch, your grasp to seize." 

" Lady, we judge by the adamantine law, 
That lives within the eternal soul of man, 
That God-enacted charter, 'Blood for blood.'" 

28 



Exhausted she sank down upon her knees, 
Her knees that fainted under her. — " Ye can, 
Ye will not show unto a woman's eyes 
That bloody consummation, not to mine. 
Oh, thou that speakest in that brazen tone 
Implacable, the last time thou and I 
Discoursed, thy voice was broken, tender, soft, 
Remember'st thou ? 't was then as it had caught 
The trembling of the moonlight, that lay round 
With rapturous disquiet bathing us. 
Remember'st thou?" — Almost the Judgment sword 
Fell from the Avenger's failing hand, but firm 
He grasp'd it, and with eyes to heaven upturn'd, 
" Oh, duty, duty, why art thou so stern ?" 
Then, " Lady, lo, the headsman with his steel ; 
To that dark Priest 't is given to sacrifice 
The victim of to-day— depart! depart! 
Colours may flow too deep for woman's sight. 
And sounds may burst too drear for woman's ear." 

Stately as lily on a sunshine bank. 
Shaken from its curl'd leaves the o'ercharging dew. 
Freshens and strengthens its bow'd stem, so white 
So brightening to a pale cold pride, a faint 
And trembling majesty, Rovvena sale. 
On Hengist's dropping lip and knitted brow 
Was mockery at her fate-opposing prayer, 
And that was all. But she — " Proud-hearted Men, 
Ye vainly deem your privilege, your right, 
Prerogative of your high-minded race. 
The glory of endurance, and the state 
Of strong resolving fortitude. Here I, 
A woman born to melt and faint and fail, 
A frail, a delicate, dying woman, sit 
To shame ye." She endured the flashing stroke 
Of th' axe athwart her eyesight, and the blood 
That sprung around her she endured : still kept 
The lily ils unbroken slateliness, 
And its pellucid beauty sparkled, still. 
But all its odours were exhaled — the breath 
Of life, the tremulous motion was at rest ; 
A flower of marble on a temple wall, 
'T was fair but lived not, glitter'd but was cold. 
While from the headless corpse t' its great account 
Went fiercely forth the Pagan's haughty soul. 

337 



328 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



INTRODUCTION. 



The subject of the following Drama had long ap- 
peared to me peculiarly adapted to the puriwses of 
Poetry. I had, some time ago, imagined a sketch, in 
a great degree similar to that which I have now filled 
up. The course of professional Study, which led me 
to the early Annals of our Church, recalled it to my 
remembrance, and. as it were, forced it on my atten- 
tion. In the outline of the Plot, and the development 
of the characters, especially that of Anne Boleyn, I 
have endeavoured to preserve historical truth: vihere 
History is silent, I have given free scope to poetic 
license, and introduced a character entirely imaginary. 
Jn endeavouring to embody that awful spirit of fiina- 
ticism — the more awful, because strictly conscientious 
— which was arrayed against our early Reformers, I 
hope to be considered as writing of those times alone. 
The representation of the manner in which bigotry 
hardens into intolerance, intolerance into cruelty and 
an infringement on the great eternal principles of 
morality, can never be an unprofitable lesson. The 
Annals of all Nations, in which Reformation was be- 
gun or completed ; those of the League in France, of 
the Low Countries and Spain, as well as of England, 
will fully bear me out in the picture which I have 
drawn ; but I have no hesitation in asserting that 
even in those times the wise and good among the 
Roman Catholics reprobated, as strongly as ourselves, 
the sanguinary and unprincipled means by which the 
Power of the Papacy was maintained. I should ob- 
serve, that I have, I trust with no unpardonable ana- 
chronism, anticipated the perfect organization of that 
Society, from which, as Robertson has with justice 
stated, " mankind have derived more advantages, and 
received greater injuries, than from any other of the 
religious fraternities." Though its Founder had al- 
ready made many proselytes, the Society was not 
formally incorporated till about five years after the 
death of Anne Boleyn. 

It may appear almost superfluous to add, that the 
manner in which the Poem is written, as well as the 
religious nature of the interest, must for ever pre- 
clude it from public representation. 

The Author of a Tragedy, recently published under 
the .same name, having pointed out sojne coincidences 
of expression between his Drama and mine, I beg to 
state, most explicitly, that previous to the publication 
of Anne Boleyn, I had never seen, either in MS. or 
print, any contemporary Poem on the same subject. 



CHARACTERS. 



MEN. 
King Henry VIIL 

Archbishop Cranmer. 

Stephen Gardiner, Bishop of Winchester. 

Lord Rochford, Brother of Queen Anne. 

Duke of Norfolk. 

Sir Henry Norreys, -\ 

Sir Francis Weston, \ Attendants onQmen Anne. 

Sir William Brereton, ) 

Sir William Kingston, Lieutenant of the Tower. 

Angelo Caraffa, a follower of Ignatius Loyola. 

Mark Smeaton. 

WOMEN. 
Queen Anne. 
Countess of Rochford. 
Countess of Wiltshire, Mother of Queen Anne. 
Magdalene Sme.\ton. 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



SCENE. 
A small Garden near Westminster. 
Mark Smeaton, Magdalene Sme.\ton. 
magdalene. 
Oh welcome, welcome — though I scarcely hoped 
That he who long hath dwelt in foreign climes, 
And now comes wearing the proud garb of Courts, 
Would waste the precious treasure of a thought 
On poor forgotten sister Magdalene. 

mark. 
Still the same humble tender Magdalene, 
j Who deems, that none can rate her modest worth 
More high than her retiring self Sweet sister, 
I would not wound thy heaven-devoted ears 
1 With the unwonted sounds of worldly flattery; 
I But in far distant climes, 'mid strangers' faces, 
[ That night was sweetest when I dream'd of thee, 
I Our native garden here, our little world 
j Of common joys and sorrows. 

MAGDALENE. 

Dearest Mark, 
The heart deems truth whate'er it wishes true. 
And wilt thou now and then steal hither to me, 
When thou'rt not call'd for at the Court? wilt bring 

338 



ANNE BOLEYN, 



329 



Thy music, such as in the royal Chapel 

Thou 'rt wont to sing ? Rude though mine ear, it loves 

Thy music, brotlier. 

MARK. 

Dearest, yes, I '11 bring 
All these, and hymns forbidden there ; there 's one 
Was taught me by a simple fisher-boy, 
That sail'd the azure tide of that bright bay 
That laves the walls of Naples: as he sung — 
What time the midnight waves were starr'd with barks, 
Each with its single glow-worm lamp, that tipt 
The waters round with rippling lines of light — 
You would have thought Heaven's queen had strew'd 

around 
Silence, like that among the stars, when pause 
The Angels in ecstatic adoration. 

MAGDALENE. 

Speak on, speak on! — Were it a stranger's voice 
That thus discoursed, I could lose days in listening; 
But thine 

MARK. 

O! Magdalene, thou know'st not here 
In our chill, damp, and heavy atmosphere, 
The power, might, magic, mystery of sweet sounds ! 
Oh! on some rock to sit, the twilight winds 
Breathing all odour by — at intervals 
To hear the hymnings of some virgin choir, 
With pauses musical as music's self. 
Come swelling up from deep and unseen distance : 
Or under some vast dome, like Heaven's blue cope, 
All full and living with the liquid deluge 
Of harmony, till pillars, walls, and aisles, 
The altar paintings and cold images. 
Catch life and motion, and the weight of feeling 
Lies like a load upon the breathless bosom ! 
But speaking thus, hours will seem minutes, sister, 
And 

MAGDALENE. 

Thou wouldst say farewell. Yet ere we part 
I long to speak one word — I dare not say 
Of counsel — but the love, whose only study 
Is one heart's book, gains deeper knowledge, Mark, 
Of its dark leaves, than schools can teach, or man 
Learn from his fellow men. 

MARK. 

Sage monitress ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Oh ! Mark, Mark — in one cradle were we laid. 

Our souls were born together, bred together; 

In all thy thoughts, emotions, my fond love 

Anticipated thine own consciousness ; 

I felt them, ere thyself knew thine own feelings : 

And never yet impetuous wish was born 

In that warm heart, but, till fulfilment crown'd it, 

Thou wert its slave — its boiinden, fetter'd slave. 

Oh ! watch thyself, mistrust, fear 

MARK. 

What? 

MAGDALENE. 

Why all things. — 
In that loose Court, they say, each hard observance, 
Fast, penance, all the rites of holy Church, 



Are scoff'd; the dainty limbs are all too proud 
T' endure the chastening sackcloth. Sin is still 
Contagious : like herself are those that wait 
On that heretical and wicked Queen. 

MARK. 

The winked Queen ! — oh ! sister, dearest sister. 
For the first time I 'd see thy pure cheek burn 
With penitent tears; go kneel, and ask Heaven's 

pardon — 
Scourge thy misjudging heart — the wicked Queen! 
Heaven's living miracle of all its graces! 
There 's not a breathing being in her presence 
But watches the least motion of a look, 
Th' unutter'd intimation of desire. 
And lives upon the hope of doing service, 
That done, is like the joy blest Angels feel 
In minist'ring to prayers of holiest Saints. 
.'Authority she wears as 't were her birthright; 
And when our rooted knees would grow to earth 
In adoration, reassuring gaiety 
Makes the soul smile at its own fears. 

MAGDALENE. 

But, Mark, 
Believes she as the Church believes ? 

MARK. 

I know not 
What she believes — I see but what she does. 
Loose Court, and shameless Queen! — her audience 
Is of the wretched, destitute, forlorn : 
The usher to that Court is Beggary, 
And Want the chamberlain ; her flatterers, those 
Whose eloquence is full and bursting hearts; 
Her parasites, wan troops of starving men 
Round the full furnish'd board — pale dowerless 

maids — 
Nuns, like thyself, cast forth from their chaste cloisters 
To meet the bitter usage of the world ; 
While holiest men are ever in her presence: 
Nor can their lavish charity exhaust 
The treasures of her goodness. 

MAGDALENE. 

Oh ! Mark, Mark- 
My only joy on earth — that, if my soul 
E'er dream'd of Heaven, wert evermore a part, 
Th' intelligible part of its full bliss. 
Thou art not warp'd by pride of new opinion ? 

MARK. 

Is 't new t' adore the mingled consummation 
Of beauty, gentleness, and goodness ? 

MAGDALENE. 

Cease ! 
For this, for hearing this, I must do penance — 
Fast, weep, and pray; and, oh! beware, beware — 
The holy Father comes, whose keen eye reads 
The inmost soul ; I 've felt him pluck the thought, 
I dared not speak, from its dark sanctuary 
r the heart, and cast it down before mine eyes 
Till my soul shudder'd at its own corruption. 
He sees us not — stand back — 't were ill t' intrude 
Upon his saintly privacy, whose soul 
Haply is prostrate at Our Lady's feet. 
In our behalf, his poor unworthy flock. 

339 



330 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Half of his life, our lady Abbess says, 

Is spent in Heaven, while the pale body here 

Pines in the absence of its nobler guest. 

MARK. 

How, Angelo! 

MAGDALENE. 

Pea,ce, peace ; seal lips and ears. 

[They retire. 

Angelo Caraffa. 

angelo caraffa. 

They crossed me, and I needs must follow — to the 

Abbey ; 
T' insult their fathers' graves ; to mock the Saints 
That from the high empurpled windows glare 
On the proud worshippers, whose secret hearts 
Disdain their intercession ; scarce a lamb 
Burnt on the prayerless shrines, and here and there 
Some wan sad vot'ress, in Our Lady's chapel, 
Listening in vain for the full anthem, told 
Her beads, and shrunk from her own lonely voice. 
But when I saw the Arch-heretic enrobed 
In the cope and pall of mitred Canterbury, 
Lift the dread Host with misbelieving hands, 
And heard another's voice profane read out, 
In their own dissonant and barbarous tongue, 
The living word of God, the choking wrath 
Convulsed my throat, and hurrying forth I sought 
A secret and unechoing place, t' unload 
My burthen'd heart ! 

'T was the first time — the last 
That holy Indignation hath o'erleap'd 
Wisdom's strong barriers — the ill-govern'd features 
Play'd traitor to the close-wrapt heart. 

But thou 
That art a part of God's dread majesty. 
In whose dusk robe his own disastrous purposes 
Th' Almighty veils, twin-born with Destiny, 
Inexorable Secrecy ! come, cowl 
This soul in deep impervious blackness! — Grant 
I may deny myself the pride and fame 
Of bringing back this loose apostate land 
To the true Faith. Be all mine agency 
Secret as are the springs of living fire 
In the world's centre ; bury deep my name, 
That mortal eye ne'er read it, till emblazed 
Amid the roll of Christ's great Saints and Martyrs 
It shake away the oblivious gloom of ages. 

Angelo, Mark, Magdalene. 

A.XGELO. 

Ye may approach — the youth, or I mistake, 
Of whom Saavedra wrote, whose dulcet voice 
And skilful handling the sweet lute were famed 
Through Italy — most fair report, young man, 
Hath been thy harbinger. 

MARK. 

Good reverend father. 
That men so wise, whose words are treasured counsels 
To mightiest Kings, should deign to note a name 
Like mine, moves wonder. 



ANGELO. 1 

Youth, thou hast a soul. 
For which thy spiritual guide must answer, 
As for a Monarch's ; in her care, the Church 
That guards the loftiest, ne'er o'erlooks the meanest. 
Thou 'rt new about the Court, and our good Queen, 
With gracious affability, will sit 
Listening to thy sweet languaged lute ; thou 'rt there 
In high esteem. 

MARK. 

Her Highness hath been pleased 
To hear me more than once ; but word of praise 
From her had been a treasure, that my memory 
Had laid in store, for my whole life to brood on. 
ANGELO (aside). 

So warm! 1 had forgot thy station, youth; 

But with the great we rank far less by birth 
Than estimation ; and the pov^er of ministering 
To their delight becomes nobility. 

MARK. 

What ? — says your wisdom so ? 

ANGELO. 

Good youth, I charge thee. 
Cherish that modesty that well becomes thee; 
But yet if Fame belie thee not, thy powers 
May bind high-scoped Advancement to thy service — ^ 
Thou mayst compete ere long with — which aflectfl 
Her Majesty most of her servants? 

MARK. 

Each 
Partakes alike of that all-winning ease — 
Not the proud condescension, which disdains 
Most manifestly when it stoops Ihe lowest — 
All are her slaves, seeming almost her equals: 
She's loved — ■ 

ANGELO. 

Enough ! — Report speaks bounteously 
Of Henry Norreys : he and William Brereton 
And Francis AVeston, are about her still — 

MARK. 

Not one, I believe, would deem his life 
111 barter'd for her service — 

ANGELO. 

And Lord Rochford, 
Her noble brother — as a Poet, youth. 
His art is kindred to thine own, its rival 
In making the mute air we breathe an element 
Of purest intellectual joy — the Queen 
To her close privacy admits. 

MARK. 

I 've heard 
She takes delight beyond all words to hear 
Our harsher English tongue, by his smooth skill, 
And noble Surrey's, and learn'd Wyatt's, flow 
Melodious, as the honey-lipp'd Italian. 

ANGELO. 

'Tis well. Thyorphan'd youth, I learn, Mark Sraeaton, 
Wants that imperious curb Heaven delegates 
To parents' hands; mine order, rank, and station 
Give to my councils th' impress of command : 
I charge thee then, by thine own soul — beware — 

340 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



331 



Should golden honours, as belike they may, 

Shower on thee, wear them still with humbleness. 

Serve that bewitching but too easy Queen 

Assiduously, but still honourably. 

Aspire not, by whatever voice thou 'rt summon'd, 

To perilous distinction ; youth, again 

I say, take heed — one single day omit not, 

On forfeiture of my paternal care. 

To pour thy full confessing soul before me. 

MARK. 

What can your Wisdom mean ? 

MAGDALENE. 

He means, dear brother, 
To merit his poor servants' prayers for this — 
Prayers that shall mount before tiie earliest lark, 
Earth's first thanksgiving voice, t' indulgent Heaven. 
Withdraw, withdraw, he heeds no more — away. 

[Exeunt. 

AN'GELO. 

That warning was a master-stroke : it brings 

The impossible within the scope of thought; 

We do forbid but what may come to pass ; 

And he will brood on il, because forbidden, 

Till his whole soul is madness. All the rest 

Are full of their proud honour, and disdain 

To torture with vain villanous misconstruction 

Each innocent phrase to looseness. Cursed woman ! 

'Gainst whom remorselessness is loftiest duty. 

And mercy sin beyond Heaven's grace — thinkst thou 

To be a Queen, and dare to be a woman 

Play fool upon thy dizzy precipice. 

Nor smile, nor word, nor look, nor thought but's noted 

In our dark registers ; each playful jest 

Is chronicled, and we are rich in all 

That 's ocular proof and circumstance of guilt 

To jealousy's distemper'd ear. 

And thou, 
Proud King! the Church's head ! — each lustful thought. 
Each murtherous deed, is a new link of the chain 
By which our slaves are trammell'd : we '11 let slip 
Thy own fierce passions, ruthless as the dogs 
Of war, to prey on thy obdurate heart ; 
And they shall drag thee down, base, suppliant. 
Beneath our feet — or drive thee maddening on, 
A hideous monster of all guilt, to fright 
The world from its apostasy, and brand 
The Heretic cause with thy eternal shame. 



Whitehall. 
Queen Anne, Attendants, her Almoner. 

ALMONER. 

So please your Majesty, your pensioners 
Flock in such hungry and still gathering troops. 
The table 's full. 

QUEEN. 

Then, Sir, spread more ; the Queen 
Commands it. 

AIxMONER. 

But the cost, your Grace ! 

QUEEN. 

Weigh that 
When thou dost serve ourself, not our poor neighbours. 
28* 2Ii 



Why sate I down but yesterday, 'mid pomps 
And luxuries that might have fed a village ? 
Go coin those wines, barter for homelier cates 
Those candied superfluities. 

ALMONER. 

It stands not 
With the King's honour thus to mulct and limit 
Your Highness' state. 

QUEEN. 

Slill less, Sir, to contract 
And weigh with base frugality the alms 
His Grace bestows through me, his humble agent. 
The Bounty of the King, Heaven's delegate, 
Should be as Heaven's: the Sun, that through the 

grate 
Of some barr'd dungeon lights the pallid cheek 
Of the poor prisoner, is a gracious gift; 
But that which argues the great God of Nature 
Is the rich prodigality of light. 
That kindles the wide universal sky 
And gladdens worlds. But to descend to truths 
Of homelier prudence. 'Tis not well to feast 
A lazy herd of sleek unlabouring drones, 
Most true. Sir ; but his Majesty hath pleased 
To take some certain Copvents and rich Abbeys 
Into his royal hands ; they, that were bred 
To sun themselves in careless indolence, 
Are cast abroad to buffet the hard world 
For bare subsistence ; even the once mitred Lords 
Of manors, benefices, lands, and palaces, 
111 husbanding their limited maintenance. 
Are brought to beggary and painful want: 
Therefore our bounty" must outrun awhile 
Our better wisdom. 

ALMONER. 

I obey your Highness. 

QUEEN. 

And have our best thanks for your prudent caution 
As for your prompt compliance. — 

Gracious Heaven ! 
I thought a throne would give the power of blessing 
Illimitable — to speak, were to make glad 
All hearts. Alas ! the higher we aspire, 
The wider spreads beneath us the dark scene 
Of human wretchedness, which even to lighten 
Wants not Heaven's goodness only, but Heaven s 

wisdom. 
While easy mischief waits on meanest minds. 
The idiot with a wanton brand may fire 
Th' imperial city, a base beggar's brood 
Infect a paradise with pestilence. 
While deep-laid schemes of princeliest goodness end 
In wider evil, and thrice heavier ruin. 
Ye smile to hear these solemn arguments 
Upon these laughter-loving lips. 

LADY ROCHFORD. 

Your Highness 
Is ever thus, or gladdening with your mirth 
Or teaching with your wisdom. 

QUEEN. 

Lady Rochford, 
Might I not add that thou art ever flattering ? 

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A brother's wife should too sincerely love 
To pamper a vain heart with praise. 

LADY ROCHFORD (aside). 

Still shamed 
And still rebuked — curse on her proud humility! 

aUEEN. 

Enough of this — in truth the board that led 

To this grave reasoning forces oft a smile 

Even on Compassion's tearful face ; the strange, 

The motley groups! the doubts, the awe, the fears, 

The pride of beggary ! There are, who patch, 

As though in honour of the royal feast. 

With scarlet and rich hues their looso-hung tatters; 

And some will creep, as they were led to justice. 

Along the hall, and the next instant pledge, 

Like jovial courtiers, the Queen's health. But those 

Of the old religion move me most. They steal 

Reluctant with suspicious steps, each instant 

Crossing themselves, to exorcise, no doubt. 

The fiends beneath the board : each time they touch 

Or dish or flagon, they renew the charm. 

As though the viands flavour'd of rank heresy. 

And 't were a deadly sin to taste the dole 

Of wicked Gospeller. Last noon came in 

Two maids, whose tatter'd veils but ill conceal'd 

Their wan and famine-sunken cheeks, not worn 

With holy fast, but bitter withering want; 

Desperate they ate, as conscious of their sin : 

Anon a pattering sound of beads F heard, 

A voice half breathless muttering broken Aves; 

Lo, the good lady Abbess, come to save 

Her soul-endanger'd charge ; but, sad to tell. 

The tempting fumes o'erpower'd her holy rigour, 

And the grave mother to the flesh-pots fell. 

ATTE.\D.\NT. 

Madam, the Countess Wiltshire. 

Lady Wiltshire, 
lady wiltshire. 

Dearest Anne ! 
My child ! — Your Highness' pardon ; my old lips 
Will never learn th' unwonted reverence ; 
Still clings the old familiar fondness round me. 

aUEEN. 

Dear mother, have I ceased to be your child 
Being a Queen? for your attendance. Ladies, 
We thank you, and ere long may task your service ; 
But now — in truth I play the Queen but ill 
Beside the cradle of my child — and thus 

Within my mother's arms 

[The Ladies retire. 

LADY WILTSHIRE. 

Oh ! who had thought 
Our little playful Anne, all mirth and frolic. 
The veriest madcap that ere made a mother 
Tremble, rejoice, and smile, and weep at once. 
Should sit on England's throne ? Nay, if thou bribe not 
My garrulous age, I may betray strange tales 
Pfot all beseeming the high sceptred state 
Of the Queen's majesty. 



QUEE.N. 

I much mistrust you — 
In truth I do. 

LADY WILTSHIRE. 

Well, Heaven be praised for all. 
Chiefly that I and thy good Father, Anne, 
Have lived with our own eyes to witness it. 
And now, come when it will, thou 'It have me buried 
In royal state; my funeral pomp shall have 
Sceptres and royal scutcheons in its train : 
I '11 not endure that my base epitaph 
Write me plain wife of good Sir Thomas Boleyn; 
I 'II be emblazed in characters of gold, 
The mother of Queen Anne. 

aUEEN. 

Ay, in good time. 
Some twenty years or mere we '11 think of this : 
But, by my faith, best mother, there 's no joy 
Of all that wait like chain'd and harness'd slaves 
Around the thrones of kings — the pomp, the splendour. 
The hearty voice of popular acclaim. 
The grave esteem of godly men, the power 
Boundless of succouring the distress'd, the grace 
And favour of a royal Husband, worihiest. 
Were he a peasant, of our fondest dotage ; 
The consciousness of being a humble means 
To build anew Christ's desolated Church — 
There 's nought more full, sincere, and rapturous^ 

nought — 
Than thus repaying all the pains, the prayers 
Of her that bore me, nursed me, train'd me up 
To this high doom, making me like herself 
Mother, all other joys make ray cheek smile; 
But thy afl!eclionate and blamele.ss pride 
Makes gladness speak her truer language — tears: 
And here comes one will not rebuke our weeping, 
My noble Rochford. 

Lord Rochford. 

rochford. 

Does your Highness pardon 
This bold intrusion ? 

QUEEN. 

I will pardon all 
But this cold courteous ceremony : 
I would not. Brother, for my throne, forego 
My station in thy heart. Wert thou a stranger. 
Thy letter'd fame had given thee entrance here. 
'Tis such as thou adorn a court, less honour'd 
Than honouring; lijr you Poets hold a court 
Which whoso visits not hath lost all title 
To that nobility which lives for ages. 
Where Kings are proud to enter. There 's no clime 
Nor age not even the Heaven of Heavens, but sends, 
Summon'd by your plumed herald Fantaisie, 
lis embassage of noblest images 
To do you service; and ye entertain them 
Right royally, do make them move to music 
That they forget the sounds of their own spheres. 

ROCHFORD. 

Your Highness ! 

QUEEN. 

Nay, your Sister! 

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333 



ROCHFORD. 

Sweet rebuke : 
Dear Sister, I 've been toiling in your service, 
Or rather turning toil to sweet delight; 
I 've been enriching my rude verse with thoughts 
I stole from thee in that religious converse 
We held some days ago, when we discuss'd 
The vain idolatries of Rome, adoring 
With disproportionate and erring reverence 
The Holy Virgin. I 've a hymn, methinks 
Will not offend. — Will 't please your Highness hear it? 

auEEN. 
Most willingly, it suits the hour — for eve, 
That steals so softly on the quiet world. 
Seems made for solemn music, even as nature 
Breathed silence over all in earth and Heaven, 
Vocal alone with grateful man's thanksgiving. 

ROCHFORD. 

Here — call Mark Smeaton, bid him bring his lute. 
Tlie above, Smeaton. 

ROCHFORD. 

Now, boy, that tune I told thee of within ; 
And look thou touch it masterly : her Grace 
Hath that nice ear that vibrates to the touch 
Of harmony, so tremblingly alive. 
The slightest discord jars on it like anguish. 
Not with that shaking hand — 

Look, the Queen smiles! 
Right, boy, thou own'st that inspiration. 

The Protestant's Hymn to the Virgin. 
1. 
Oh! Virgin Mother! not with choral hymn 
Around the lamp-deck'd altar high and dim, 
Where silver bells are faintly ringing, 
And odorous censers lightly swinging; 
Till blazing forth above, beneath, around. 
Rolls the full organ's never-ceasing sound : 
Not with the costly gift of gold and gem, 
Where thy enshrined image stands. 
Loveliest, though framed by daring human hands, 
And halo'd with thy sun-like diadem: 
Not with the deep devotion of the heart. 
Close folded arms across the heaving breast, 
And words that find no breath, and sighs supprest — 
Mary, we seek not thee 
With suppliant agony 
Of burning tears, that all unbidden start ; 
To mortal name our jealous souls deny 
The incommunicable meed of Deity. 



And thou, where'er thy everlasting seat — 
If ever human prayer, with noise unmeet, 
Up to thy radiant throne on high. 
Ascend through the reluctant sky ; 
Or earthly music its fond notes intrude 
Upon the silence of beatitude: 
Lowliest as loveliest among mortal maids! 
With all the grief that may abate 
The changeless bliss of thy empyreal state, 
Ever thy sad dejected look upbraids 



The misdirected homage, vain and blind ; 

Aside thou turnest thy offended ears 

Where one Hosanna fills th' acclaiming spheres; 

Oh ! conscious child of Eve, 

Mary, thy soul doth grieve 
At godhead's sacred rite to thee assign'd ; 
Mourning the rash unholy injury done 
To the redeeming name of thy Almighty Son! 

3. 
Yet ne'er Incarnate Godhead might reside. 
Save where his conscious presence glorified; 

Thee, therefore, lovelier far we deem 

Than eye may see or soul may dream. 
Unchanged— unwasted by the pains of earth, 
Thou didst bring forth the fair immortal birth : 
And Hope and Faith, and deep maternal Joy, 

And Love, and not unholy Pride, 

With soft unevanescent glory dyed 
Thy cheeks, while gazing on the peerless boy ; 
And surer than prophetic consciousness, 
That he was born all human-kind to bless ! 
The musical and peopled air was dim, 
Mary, where'er thy haunt, 
With angels visitant, 
Nor always did the viewless Seraphim 
Stand with their plumed glories unconfest, 
To see the Eternal Child while cradled on thy breast 

4. 

And what, though in the winter, bleak and wild, 
Thou didst bring forth the unregarded child, 

The summon'd star made haste to shine 

Upon that new-born face divine. 
And the low dwelling of the stabled beast 
Shone with the homage of the gorgeous East. 
Though driven far off to Nilus' reedy shore. 

As thou didst slake thy burning feet. 

Where o'er the desert fount the arching palm- 
trees meet : 
Still its soft pillow'd charge thy bosom bore; 
And thou didst watch in rapture his sweet sleep; 
Or gaze, while sportive he thy locks carest. 
Or drank the living fountain of thy breast. 
Yet, Mary, o'er thy soul 
A silent sadness stole. 
Nor could thy swelling eyes refuse to weep, 
For Rachel, desolate, in agony, 
And Bethlehem's mothers childless all but thee. 

5. 
Nor fail'd thy watchful spirit to behold 
The secret inborn Deity unfold : 

Nor e'er without a painless awe. 
The wonderous youth the mother saw ; 
For in the Baptist's playful love appear'd 
The homage of a heart that almost fear'd : 
And though in meek subjection still he dwelt 
Beneath thy husband's lowly home, 
Oft from his lips would words mysterious come ; 
The soul untaught the present Saviour felt. 
As more than prophet raptures o'er him broke, 
And fuller still the inspiration pour'd, 
Half-bow'd to earth unconscious knees adored : 

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Mary, before thy sight, 
The wonder-working might, 
Prerogative of highest Godhead woke ; 
Unfearful yet! — when instant at his sign, 
The water vessels blush'd with generous wine. 



Blest o'er all women; did thy heart repress, 

Humble as chaste, each thought of loftiness, 
When wonder after wonder burst 
Around the child thy bosom nurst; — 

The dumb began to sing, the lame to leap ; 

His unwel footsteps trod the unyielding deep ; 

Still at his word disease and anguish ceased, 
And healthful blood began to flow, 
Ruddy, beneath the leper's skin of snow; 

And shuddering fiends the tortured soul released ; 

And from the grave arose the summon'd dead? 

Yet, ah ! did ne'er thy mother's heart repine, 

When he set forth upon his dread design ? 
Mary, did ne'er thy love 
His piteous fate reprove, 

When on the rock reposed his houseless head ? 

Seem'd it not strange to thy officious zeal — 

All pains, all sorrows, save his own, to heal ? 

7. 
Yet, oh ! how awful. Desolate ! to thee, 
Thus to have shrined the living Deity ! 

When underneath the loaded Rood, 

Forlorn the childless mother stood : 
Then when that voice, whose first articulate breath 
Thrill'd her enraptured ear, had now in death 
Bequeath'd her to his care whom best he loved ; 

When the cold death-dew bathed his brow. 

And faint the drooping head began to bow, 
Wert thou not, saddest, too severely proved ? 
As in thy sight each rigid limb grew cold. 
And the lip whilen'd with the burning thirst, 
And the last cry of o'erwrought anguish burst, 
Where then the Shiloh's crown, 
Mary, the Christ's renown, 
By Prophets and Angelic harps foretold ? 
Was strength to thy undoubting spirit given ? 
Or did not human love o'erpower thy trust in Heaven? 



But when Death's conqueror from the tomb return'd, 
Was thine the heart that at his voice ne'er burn'd ? 
Follow'd him not thy constant sight, 
Slow melting in Heaven's purest white, 
To take his ancient endless seat on high, 
On the right hand of Parent Deity ? 
As when thine earthly pilgrimage was ended. 
We deem not, but that circled round, 
With ringing harps of Heaven's most glorious 
sound. 
Thy spirit, redeem'd through thy Son's blood, ascended: 
There evermore in lowliest loftiness, 
Meek thou admirest, how that living God, 
That fills the Heaven and Earth, in thee abode. 
Mary, we yield to thee 
All but idolatry ; 



We gaze, admire, and wonder — love and bless: 
Pure, blameless, holy, every praise be thine, 
All honour, save thy Son's, all glory but divine. 



SCENE. 
The Palace of the Bishop of ^Yinchester. 

ANGELO. 

More blood ! more blood ! — three noble brethren more. 
From the Carthusian's decimated house (1), 
Doom'd to the block — ay, pour it forth like water! 
Make your Thames red, till your proud galleys plough 
Their way, and leave a sanguine wake behind them : 
Set wide the gates of Hell, and summon thence 
Murder, enthroned on your high judgment-seat; 
Arm her dark sister, lawless Massacre, 
With the dread axe of public Execution ; 
Can Hell, or Earth's confederate Kings prevail 
'Gainst the true Church ? — But, oh! ye martyr'd souls! 
Spirits, with whose saintly blood their robes are wet — 
Oh ! all-accomplish'd More, and sainted Fisher, 
Rejoice ye not that with your death ye rouse 
The fire-wing'd ministers of Heaven's just wrath, 
That welcoming your souls to th' abode of bliss. 
Stand with spread wings, and ready girt for vengeance! 

But ye, the pulpit Captains of the Schism, 
Worse than the worst — soul murderers. Hell's Apos- 
tles— 
Ye would pour oil into the Church's wounds 
That your own parricide hands have rent, and think 
They will not plead against you. — Oh ! ye blind 
To earthly wisdom as Heaven's light, that dare not 
Greatly to sin, or, politicly severe. 
Crush where ye conquer — ye will stand aloof 
From the black scaffold, preach, protest, forswear 
All deeds of blood ; yet your infected cause 
Shall smell of it to latest generations ! 
Oh fools! to plunge in internecine strife, 
Yet pause, and fear to slay : — deserving none. 
And by Heaven's throne receiving none, to dream 
Of showing mercy; either way ye perish. 
Or shed the martyrs' blood, whose dying voices 
Arm Earth, Hell, Heaven, 'gainst your ungodly cause ; 
Abstain, the uncheck'd recoil of our fierce vengeance 
Shall sweep you to the appointed pit of Hell ! 

Angelo, Gardiner. 

ANGELO. 

My Lord of Winchester, thou hast received 
Our full credentials from St. Peter's chair ? 

GARDINER. 

Brother in Christ, thou know'st this land rejects 
Rome's Bishop and his tyrannous usurpation. 

ANGELO. 

That Stephen Gardiner owns no power in Rome 

I know, nor yet in England. What cares he 

For King or Pontiff, so he may maintain 

The proud supremacy of Stephen Gardiner. 

A second, but a greater Wolsey, thou, 

With thine unbounded soul, wouldst rule o'er all — 

Church, State, the world 

344 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



335 



GARDINER. 

Italian, thou 'rl too bold 

ANGELO. 

Too true, good Islander ! but think not, Gardiner, 

I or lament or deprecate thy greatness. 

What qualities that make man fit to rule 

Meet not in Winchester's capacious soul? 

The statesman's large and comprehensive mind ; 

The politician's keen prophetic eye ; 

The scholar's mastery o'er the realm of knowledge ; 

Smooth manners, that with courtly art persuade ; 

The eloquent pen, pregnant with thought profound ; 

Quickness to penetrate each dark design ; 

Sagacity to wind the unwilling soul 

To his own purpose : wisest in the council ; 

Deep read in books — in man's dark heart still deeper; 

Most knowing in all Europe's courts. Blest England, 

If she but prize his worth ; himself most blest. 

If but to his own interests blind, he err not 

On his ascendant path 

GARDINER. 

Your meaning, brother ? 

ANGELO. 

A Churchman, and abase the Church's rule! 
To wrest the thunder from his awful grasp, 
Whose delegates are we, as he is Heaven's, 
And place it in the temporal tyrant's hands. 
That hath no scope nor end but his own pride 
And carnal lust of sway ! Rome covets power, 
But for her sons, with wholesome tyranny. 
To their own weal, to govern kings and nations. 
Oh ! traitor to thy people, King, and God, 
As to thyself! to cast away the sceptre 
That sways man's soul to his immortal vantage ! 
Son of the Holy Church, I exorcise 
The fiend of disobedience from thine heart; 
By all thou lovest — pomp, majesty, dominion, 
By all thou hatest — th' apostate cause and crew, 
Th'all powerful Cranmerl — ay, I see thy cheek 
Blanch, thy low quivering lip — by all thou fear'st. 
By all thou hopest, thou 'rt ours, thou 'rt Rome's, 
thou 'rt Heaven's ! 

GARDINER. 

Good Father, walls have ears — the treacherous air, 
With terrible delation, wanders round 
The thrones of Kings. 

ANGELO. 

Thou think'st not, I or Rome 
Would urge a rashness, which might wreck our cause : 
Would have thee cast this wise dissembling off. 
By which thou hast won the easy confidence 
Of foolish heretics : be supple still, 
And seeming true, thou 'rt worthier of our trust. 
We know thy heart our own, and lend awhile 
Thy tongue, thy pen, to the proud King, 1' abase him 
To a more abject slave of thee and Rome. 
Now hear me, Prelate, glut thine car with tidings, 
For there are dark and deep-delved plots, that 'scape 

' Even Gardiner's lynx-eyed sight — thy soul shall laugh. 

; The Queen— the Boleyn — the false harlot heretic — 

She 's in our toils — lost, doom'd 

2T 

I 



GARDINER. 

I know the King 
Is fallen away to a new lust, and hates 
Where once he doted. — But her death ! 

ANGELO. 

What! versed 
In courts like Gardiner, and not know how close 
Death waits upon the blasting hate of Kings ? 
I tell thee, she shall die — die on a scaffold ! 
Die branded like a base adulteress! — 
Die like a heretic — the Church's foe! — 
Die unabsolved, unhousel'd — die for ever ! 

GARDINER. 

Ay, but her blameless life; the love she wins 
By subtle sorcery from every rank. 

ANGELO. 

Blameless ! — a heretic avow'd, proclaim'd, 

The nursing mother of Apostasy ! 

Heap crime on crime, load all her soul with blackness, 

Make her name hideous to the end of time ; 

Yet is she not, to a true son of the Church, 

More odious, more abominable — all sins 

Are in that one! Adultery, murder, nought 

Is wanting but desire or meet occasion, ' 

And the loose heart gives way. 

GARDINER. 

But this Jane Seymour 
Is of no better brood. 

ANGELO. 

What reck we who 
Or what she is? she shall give place t' another, 
Another still, till the fierce flame burns out. 
And shame, remorse, and horror, all the furies 
That howl and madden round the guilty bed. 
Seize on the abject Monarch ! He shall lick 
The dust beneath our feet, and pay what price 
The Church ordain, for tardy reconcilement. 

GARDINER. 

Brother, draw near! thy speech hath bodied forth 
What hath come floating o'er my secret thought. 

ANGELO. 

And own'st thou not Heaven's manifest inspiration? 

GARDINER. 

So thou wilt bring to pass what Gardiner left 
In unaccomplish'd vision ! Man of men, 
What fame shall wait, what canonizing glory 
On sainted Angelo ! 

ANGELO. 

While Stephen Gardiner 
Must sink into the baser rank. Oh ! fear not. 
Nor jealously mistrust me, lest I cross 
Thy upward path : 1 have forsworn the world. 
Not with the ftrmal oaths that burst like flax. 
But those that chain the soul with triple iron. 
Earth hath no guerdon I may covet, none 
I may enjoy. — Thou, Stephen Gardiner, 
Shalt rule submissive Prelates, Peers and Kings, 
Loftiest in station, as in mind the mightiest ; 
I And a perpetual noon of golden power 
I Shall blaze around thy lordly mitred slate. 
I I 'm girt for other journeys : at that hour, 

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When all but crown'd the righteous work, this Isle 

Half bow'd again to the Holy See, I go 

Far in some savage land unknown, remote 

From civilized or reasonable life, 

From letters, arts — where wild men howl around 

Their blood-stain'd altars — to uplift th' unknown, 

Unawful Crucifix : I go to pine 

With famine ; waste with slow disease ; the loathing 

And scorn of men. And when thy race is run, 

Thou, Winchester, in marble cemetery. 

Where thy cathedral roof, like some rich grove. 

Spreads o'er, and all the walls with 'scutcheons blaze, 

Shalt lie. While anthem'd choirs and pealing organs. 

And incense clouds, and a bright heaven of lamps, 

Shall solemnize thy gorgeous obsequies ; 

O'er my unsepulchred and houseless bones, 

Cast on the barren beach of the salt sea, 

Or arid desert, where the vulture flaps 

Her dreary wings, shall never wandering Priest 

Or bid his beads or say one passing pray'r. 

Thy memory shall live in this land's records 

While the sea girds the isle ; but mine shall perish 

As utterly as some base beggar's child 

That unbaptized drops like abortive fruit 

Into unhallow'd grave. 

GARDINER. 

Impossible! 
Rome cannot waste on such wild service minds 
Like thine, nor they endure the base obedience. 

ANGELO. 

Man of this world, thou know'st not those who tread 

The steps of great Ignatius, those that bear 

The name of Jesus and his Cross. I 've sunk 

For ever title, rank, wealth — even my being; 

And self-annihilated, boast myself 

A limb, a nameless limb, of that vast body 

That shall bespread the world, uncheck'd, untraced — 

Like God's own presence, every where, yet no 

where — 
Th' invisible control, by which Rome rules 
The universal mind of man. On me 
My Father's palace-gates no more shall open, 
I own no more my proud ancestral name, 
I have no property even in these weeds, 
These coarse and simple weeds I wear; nor will, 
Nor passion, nor affection, nor the love 
Of kindred touch this earth-estranged heart; 
My personal being is absorb'd and dead. 
Thou think'st it much with cilice, scourge, and fast 
To macerate thy ail-too- pamper'd body. 
That thy sere heart is seal'd to woman's love. 
That child shall never climb thy knees, nor call thee 
His father :— on the altar of my God 
I 've laid a nobler sacrifice, a soul 
Conscious it might have compass'd empire. — This 
I 've done ; and in no brief and frantic fit 
Of youthful lust nngratified— in the hour 
Of disappointed pride. A noble, born 
Of Rome's patrician blood, rich, letter'd, versed 
In the aflfairs of men ; no monkish dreamer 
Hearing Heaven's summons in ecstatic vision. 
God spoke within this heart but with the voice 



Of stern deliberate duty, and I rose 
Resolved to sail the flood, to tread the fire — 
That 's nought — to quench all natural compunction. 
To know nor right nor wrong, nor crime nor virtue 
But as sub.servient to Rome's cause and Heaven's. 
I 've school'd my haughty soul to subtlest craft, 
I 've strung my tender heart to bloodiest havoc. 
And stand prepared to wear the martyr's flames 
Like nuptial robes; — far worse, to drag to the stake 
My friend, the brother of my soul — if thus 
I sear the hydra's heads of heresy. 

GARDINER. 

Think not thine order, brother, nor thy tenets 

Sublime as that unquestioning devotion 

With which God's Seraphim perform his mandates 

Unknown, unnoticed, unobserved. I lay 

The volume of this heart, that man ne'er read. 

Before thee. Here is hate of heresy. 

Deep, desperate as thine own. In the dead night, 

And in the secret prayers of my dark chamber. 

Like thee I cry. Holy and True, how long — 

Oh I when will they blaze up and gladden heaven, 

The glorious purifying fires, and purge 

The land of its pollutions; when the Church 

Its pure and virgin whiteness re-array. 

And its true Sons shake oflJ'dissembling darkness? 

ANGELO. 

Oh ! Gardiner, beware ! No lust of vengeance, 
No carnal hate, nor hope of worldly triumph, 
Mast leaven our heroic zeal : God's will 
Its sole commission, its sole end God's glory. 
We must gird up our souls to this high service, 
Alike subdue and bend our pride and passions 
To our great scope ; with nought too stern or dread 
But that we '11 on relentless, nought too base 
But we will stoop — much is already done — 

GARDINER. 

Enough, I ask no more, would know no more. 
I '11 stand aloof, and wait in holy hope 
Th' appointed hour. 

ANGELO. 

In safety reap the harvest 
Sown in the sweat of others' brows. 'T is well. 
Thus shall i,t be, thus best the cause will prosper; 
And, prosper but the cause, my work is done. 



^Vhitehaa. 
QUEEN {dismissing her Ladies). 
Away — we are not used to order twice ; 
Avjoy — depart. — 

I am alone — alone — 
Nor that cold hateful pomp of fawning faces 
Pursues me, nor the true oflicious love 
Of those whose hearts I would not wring, by seeming 
The wretch I am : so pour thee forth, mine heart. 
Pour thy full tide of bitterness; for Queens 
Must weep in secret when they weep. I saw it — 
'T was no foul vision — with unblinded eyes 
I saw it ; his fond hands, as once in mine. 
Were wreathed in hers ; he gazed upon her face 
Even with those fatal eyes, no woman looks at — 

346 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



337 



I know it, ah ! loo well — nor madly dote. 

That eloquence, the self-same burning words 

That seize the awe-struck soul, when weakest, thrill'd 

Her vainly-deaf averted ears. — Oh, Heaven! 

I thank thee that I cursed her not, nor him. 

Jane Seymour, like a sister did I deem thee; 

But what of that? Thou 'rt heaven-ordain'd to visit 

Her sins upon the head of her that dared 

To love, to wed another's lord. Mayst thou 

Ne'er know the racking anguish of this hour, 

The desolation of this heart! But thou, 

Oh ! thou, my crime, my madness ! thou on whom 

The loftiest woman had been proud to dote, 

Had he been master of a straw-roofd cottage ! 

Was 't just to awe, to dazzle the young mind, 

That deem'd its transport loyal admiration, 

Submissive duty all, till it awoke 

And found it thrilling, deepest woman's love ! 

Too late, too early disabused — would Heaven 

That I were still abused ! Long, long I 've felt 

Love's bonds fall one by one from thy pall'd heart. 

Oh ! the fond falsehoods of my credulous soul! 

War, policy, religion, all the cares 

Of kingdoms, Europe's fate within thy hands, 

I pleaded to myself to justify 

Thy cold estrangement. 

Well, 'tis o'er, and I 
Must sit alone on my cold eminence. 
All women's envy, mine own scorn and pity. 
And all the sweetness of these virgin lips, 
And all the pureness of this virgin bosom. 
And all the fondness of this virgin heart, 
Forgotten, turn'd to scorn — perchance to loathing. 
Heaven ! was no way but this, and none but He 
To scourge this guilty heart? Thy will be done. 
I've still a noble Father, and a Brother, 
And, Powers of grace! my Mother — kill her not. 
Break not her heart, — for sure it will break to hear it. 
My child, my child, thou only wilt not feel it : 
Thy parent o'er thy face may weep, nor thou 
Be sadder for her misery ; thou wilt love me 
Though thy false father scorn and loathe. My 

Mother— 
Oh ! ne'er before would I have fled thy presence : 
Betray me not, my tear-swoln eyes. 

Queen, Lady Wiltshire. 

lady wiltshire. 

Dear Anne, 
I come to task thy goodness: thou must use 
That witching influence none e'er resists; 
That, with a sweet and pardonable treason, 
Makes the King's Grace thy slave, nor leaves him 

power 
To think or speak but at thy pleasure — 
QUEEN (aside). 

Heaven ! 
Each word wrings blood from my torn heart. 

LADY WILTSHIRE. 

In truth, 
There never lived who could refuse thee aught ; 
For thou wert never known to ask amiss. 
But, thou 'rt all tears. 



QUEEN. 

Nought — nought — thy story. Mother. 

LADY WILTSHIRE. 

Ay, nothing sure will chase away thy weakness. 
Be 't of the body or the mind, so soon 
As that sweet consciousness that thou art using 
The power Heaven gave thee in Heaven's cause. 

His Grace 
The Primate waits without t' implore your Highness, 
That the old high-born Prior of the Carthusians, 
And two right noble brethren of that house. 
That, obstinate and self-will'd, still subscribe not 
The King's supreme dominion, may find mercy, 
Nor perish on the ignominious scaffold. 

QUEEN. 

My Lord of Canterbury at our door! 
The presence of that righteous man, dear Mother, 
Breathes sanctity as though from Heaven ; our hearts 
O'erflow at once with prayer and holiest thoughts. 
Admit his Grace. 

The above. Cranmer. 

QUEEN. 

Your blessing, holy Father. 
cranmer. 
Heaven save your Highness ! But, remember, Lady, 
Prayers of anointed Priests or mitred Prelates 
Are poor and valueless to such as come 
From those that wear Christ's truest livery, 
The wretched and the broken-hearted. 

QUEEN (aside). 

Heaven, 
I own thy voice — then mine are surely heard. 

CRANMER. 

I '11 teach your Grace to do Heaven violence, 

Hy shrining your blest name in vows of men. 

From death released, from cruel public death. 

The Countess Wiltshire hath made known our suit; 

And though my soul abhors the wilful hardness 

Of these proud men, yet they were nursed in error — 

In error, but for all-enlightening grace. 

That still had darken'd our own souls. Were Heaven 

Extreme t' avenge its outraged majesty, 

Would the red roaring thunder ever cease? 

And shall the axe earth's injured Monarchs wield 

Be never satiate with the offending ,blood ? 

QUEEN. 

Had I the power! 

CRANMER. 

The power! thou '.';t ever been 
The rainbow o'er the awful throne. The King, 
That lives but in thy presence, ne'er disdain'd 
Thy righteous supplication. Oh ! gr()at Queen, 
Our cause, the Gospel cause, the cause of Christ, 
Is spotted o'er with shame. Rude sa crilege 
Usurps the name of godly Reformatii >n. 
And revels in the spoil of shrine and altar. 
Men have cast down the incensed he athenish image 
To worship with more foul idolatry 
The gold of which 'twas wrought ; v nd all the blood 
The too relentless Law for Treason ? \eds. 
Attaints our blameless faith of direst cruelty. 

347 



338 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



auEEN (aside). 
More woe, more woe — to know these holy hopes, 
This noble trust, misplaced and frustrate all ! 
Your Grace o'ervalues our poor influence. 
Such as it is. 

LADY WILTSHIRE. 

The King! 

QUEEN. 

I '11 know the worst. 
Dear mother, leave us. Come contempt or shame, 
She must not witness it: but he the rather 
Will seek to compensate the heart's deep wrongs 
By outward graciousness. Wretch, wretch myself, 
I may relieve the wretchedness of others : — 
Be 'I as it may, the world shall never know 
Through me the secret of his sin, his falsehood. 
But deem him by my love the gentlest husband 
As the most noble Monarch upon Earth. 

King Henry. 

KING. 

Refuse our mandate — shut their Abbey gates 
Against our Pursuivants — refuse our oaths — 
Now, by St. Paul, not one of them shall wear 
His shaven crown on his audacious shoulders! 

CRANMER. 

Your Majesty will hear your faithful servant. 

KING. 

I '11 none of it — their heads or their allegiance. 
God's death ! have all our Parliament and Peers, 
Our Rev'rend Bishops, given their hands and seals, 
And shall we thus be mock'd and set at nought 
By beggarly and barefoot monks? Archbishop, 
Out of our love to thine own reverend person, 
We do refuse thy most unwise petition. 
Good foolish man, not one of them but urged 
By that old Priest of the Seven Hills would bum us, 
Body and soul. We 'II have no Kings but one, 
Kone but ourself — Tut, not a word. How now ? 
What, Nan? what blank? what all a mort? Thy jests. 
And thy quaint sayings, and thy smiles — 
auEEN. 

My Liege, 
I have been sued to be a suppliant 
For these who.faH'n beneath thine high displeasure — 

KING. 

'Sdealh ! ye've your answer — as I pass'd but now 
Jane Seymour was set on t' entreat our mercy; 
We yielded not, nor thought of being wearied 
At every step with the old tedious tale — 
Art eaiswer'd? 

auEEN. 
W hat I am, I owe your Grace, 
And in most deep humility confess it; 
But being as I am, your Grace's wife, 
I knew not that m,y maid's rejected prayer 
Precluded further speech 

KING. 

Wliy, how now, wayward ! 
Your maid I good 1r ath, SirThomas Boleyn's daughter's 
Right nobly served . 1 'd have you know, proud woman, 



What the King gives, the King may take away — 
Who raised up one from dust, may raise another. 
Look to thyself, I say — ihou mayst have cause ; 
Look, and be wise — be humble. For your Grace 
We 've business in our Council — not a word — 
Our Queen 's our subject still. 

QUEEN (alone). 

And this is he. 
The flower of the world's chivalry, most courtly 
Where met the splendour of all courts! When Europe 
Sent its three Sov'reigns to that Golden field, 
Who won all eyes with liberal noble bearing? 
Who charm'd all ears with high and gracious speech? 
Who made all hearts his slaves by inbred worth 
But English Henry ? by his pattern all 
Moved, spoke, rode, tilted, shaped their dress, their 

language. 
And he that most resembled England's King 
Was kingliest in the esteem of all. This he 
That lay whole hours before my worshipp'd feet. 
Making the air melodious with his words? 
So fearful to offend, having offended 
So fearful of his pardon, not myself 
More jealous of my maiden modesty ; 
The bridegroom of my youth, my infant's Father! 
Ah! me, my rash and inconsiderate speech, 
My pride, hath wrought from his too hasty nature 
This shame upon mine head : he 'II turn, he '11 come 
My prodigal back to mine heart — if not, 
I 'm born his subject, sworn before high Heaven 
His faithful wife ; then let him cast me from him, 
Spum, trample me to dust — the foe, the stranger 
That owns no law of kindred, blood, or duty. 
Is taught, where every word is Heaven's own truth, 
To love where most he 's hated. I will live 
On the delicious memory of the past. 
And bless him so for my few years of bliss. 
My lips shall find no time for harsh reproach ; 
I '11 be as one of those sweet flowers that, crush'd 
By the contemptuous foot, winds closer round it, 
And breathes in every step its richest odours. 



An Apartment in Weslminsler. 
Angelo, Lady Rochford. 

ANGELO. 

In that proud Prelate's heart a noble chord (2) 
I touch'd, now harp we on a baser string. 
The Lady Rochford ! thou art here to tell me 
That thou fulfill'st the terms on which the Church, 
In its high plenitude of power, absolves 
The guilty soul. 

lady rochford. 
I come. Sir, to advise 
With your wise sanctity. 

angelo. 

We've judged already. 
And look but for obedience — hast thou scatter'd 
Those hints and seeds of hate in the King's path. 
That he behold this Queen in her true colours ? 

348 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



339 



LADV ROCHFORD. 

I have ; with zeal so fatal, with success 
So manifest, mine inmost soul recoils 
At the base service. 

AN'GELO. 

Hast obtain'd that paper 
In Lady Wingfield's hand ? 

LADY ROCHFORD. 

'T is here. 

ANGELO. 

Good! good! — 

LADY ROCHFORD. 

Inexorable! — must I show no mercy? 
Must crime be still atoned by crime ? Oh ! think. 
She is my husband's sister — his, the bridegroom 
Of ray fond youth 

ANGELO. 

To whom thou art so true 
And faithful! 

LADY ROCHFORD. 

Ha! what need of words to thee, 
That readst the inmost depths of this dark heart 
More clearly than myself— I hate that husband, 
For that I 've injured him so deeply ; hate 
Her virtue that reproaches mine own shame : 
But yet to slander her pure fame 

ANGELO. 

You said 
Erewhile you doubled her yourself. 

LADY ROCHFORD. 

The sinful 
Have a base interest to drag down the holy 
To their own level. Set me some strange penance. 
To grind the flesh, and wring the hearl's-blood forth ; 
Oh I any thing but this base wicked service ! 

ANGELO. 

Thou wilt do all but what the Church commands. 
What is it for a life like thine — a life 
That doth confess, bewail, forswear its sins. 
But with new zest t' indulge — that comest so oft 
With the liiul tale, that I do fear to breathe 
The tainted air of my confessional ? 
For such a life is not that place ordain'd 
Where air is fire, life pain, and language howling ? 

LADY ROCHFORD. 

Oh! horror! 

ANGELO. 

Look that thou perform our bidding 
To the strict letter, the extremest point, 
Wary and secret, as becomes a servant 
Would merit grace and favour. 

LADY ROCHFORD. 

I 'm no servant — 
A slave — a lash'd, a crouching, abject slave, 
In the iron bondage of my sins! 

ANGELO. 

Ungrateful ! 
When I might hurl thee, black with malediction, 
Where all thy direst visions of remorse. 
The racking moments of remember'd crime, 

29 2S 



The fangs of Conscience tearing at thy heart. 
Thy tossing, feverish, spectre-staring midnights, 
Would seem remission, peace, delight to years 
Interminable 

LADY ROCHFORD. 

Oh ! my soul ! my soul ! 

ANGELO. 

And I have taught thee how to merit favour 
From those to whom the eternal keys are given — 
Tinged j'our black desperation with the hue 

Of hope Away ! back to thy duty — watch ! 

And those who weigh in the everlasting scales 
Service against rebellion, and obedience 
Against transgression, may at length strike down 
The balance, and pronounce thee what thou darest 

not — 
Thou dost not — hope may be thy lot. — Away ! 



The Garden, as before. 

Mark Smeaton Magdalene Smeaton. 

magdalene. 
My brother ! 

MARK. 

Oh ! her voice — it will not cease — 
It sounds within my ears, within my heart. 
And thou, my harp once loved, but now a treasure 
Which kingdoms will not buy ; of her sweet tones 
Thou 'It keep the perfume, as the Arabian air 
The smell of spices. 

MAGDALENE. 

Mark, thou 'rt strangely moved ; 
Speak to me — keep from her no jealous secret. 
From her who loves thee with so whole a heart: 
Nor thy unkindness, were 't in thy soft nature — 
Nor sorrows, they would but endear thee more — 
Nor even thy sins, if that way I could fear thee — 
Could e'er estrange 

MARK. 

The Queen ! the Queen ! my sister: 
She sent for me — she made me sit before her. 
As my hand trembled on my lute, she smiled 
With gracious playfulness — oh ! what a store 
Of precious memories I've treasured up — 
Look, motion, word, like relics have I shrined them 
In the heart's sanctuary, where all my thoughts 
Shall come in daily pilgrimage devout 
Till I am dust and clay. I miserable, 
With such a refuge ! sinful, with the power 
Of her controlling holiness about me ! 

MAGDALENE. 

Oh ! brother, brother, my misgiving heart 
Recoils, it knows not why, from words that sound 
Like dangerous profanation : I have forsworn 
All love but that of holiest cloister'd maids 
Before the bleeding crucifix; hut yet 
I feel that there is sin in thy wild language, 
Sin, no less deep in thought because in deed 
Impossible. — Lo! Father Angelo. 

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MARK. 

This awful man again ! — must we ne'er meet 
Bui his appalling look, inscrutable 
Yet scrutinizing all, must cite to judgment 
Each passing thouglit, each word, each wish 

MAGDALENE. 

Mark, Mark, 
Do any but the guilty dread the presence 
Of holiest men ? He comes to visit here 
The mother of my youth, whose outcast age 
Hath none but me, of all our scatter'd convent, 
To smooth her dying pillow, watch her wants ; 
And none but Father Angelo t' attend her, 
So constantly as though no soul but hers 
Needed his zealous function. 

Angelo. Tlie above. 

ANGELO. 

So, fair youth. 
Our prophecies fall true — thou 'rt i' the sunshine. 
Last eve, I ask not, if the dangerous song 
Beseem'd a son of Holy Church — that sin 
Be theirs, not thine. 

MARK. 

How knew he this ? 

ANGELO. 

Had those 
That take in charge th' eternal souls of men 
No ways of knowledge to the vulgar eye 
Inscrutable, our task were ill fulfdl'd. 
So tell me, youth, and look that thou speak truth, 
Truth to the word, the letter, even the tone — 
Fell no peculiar private passages. 
Nor word, nor sign, nay, nor familiar motion. 
Emphatic tone, nor more expressive pause, 
Between thyself and (he Queen's Grace ? 

MARK. 

Good Sir, 
Think on my baseness and her state 

ANGELO. 

So young 
And so dishonpst I Boy, look to 't ! Thy soul. 
Thy soul that lives in bliss or dies for ever, 
Is on the hazard (but I speak in love. 
And not in anger) spake she not more gently ? 
Glanced not her eye more kindly than 'twas wont? 
Drank not her ears thy songs with longer rapture ? 
Awes not her presence less, and charms the more ? — 
Boy, boy, take heed — be warn'd, be wise. 

MARK. 

Sir, Sir, 
Is 't possible, in human nature! where, 
In History or Legend, wild and marvellous. 
Is 't written, that a Queen — a Queen like her — 
The Queen of Queens in beauty and in goodness, 
Stoop'd to consider one like me ? 

ANGELO. 

This life 
Hath stransre vicissitudes. This Queen, this partner 
Of England's throne, I can remember well 
The Duchess of Alencon once esteem'd 



Of note scarce higher in her royal court 

Than thou in England's — so, once more beware. 

There is no price man's enemy will not pay 

For one immortal soul. Now, the good Abbess — 

Daughter, advance — how fares it with your charge! 

MAGDALENE. 

Sir, longing for your presence, as the blind 

For light : your holy words breathe deeper calmness 

O'er all her frame, than medicine's opiate drugs; 

Her only fear of death is lest she want 

Your parting benediction. 

ANGELO. 

In— I '11 follow. 

MARK. 

Will he not warn me not to wing the air. 
Lest I should fly too near the parching Sun, 
And shrivel into dust? — To doubt his wisdom 
Were to impeach man's general estimate ; 
T' arraign his charity would give the lie 
To a whole life of painfid sanctity. 
And slur th' anointed Priesthood with contempt. 
Yet her — of her to speak, to think, t' imagine 
Less than the purest, chastest, holiest, best — 
An Angel, but without an Angel's wings. 
Lest, weary of this tainting world, she fly 
Untimely to her native skies ; and I, 

A poor, unknown, a homeless, friendless boy 

The more I think the wilder grow my thoughts. 
And every thought is stamp'd with her bright image; 
She is my world of fantasy, each sound 
Is as her voice, each gleam of light her look. 
And midnight hath no vision but of her. 



Wiitehall. 

Queen and Jjadies. 

Sir Henry Norreys, Sir Francis Weston, Sir 
William Brereton, Mark Smeaton. 

norreys. 
Your Majesty will grace the tilt to-day? 

QUEEN. 

The King so wills it: mine obedience rather 
Than mine own humour sways my choice. 
norreys. 

I had dared 
To hope that he, your Grace has deign'd to name 
Your Knight, being Champion of the ring, your 

Highness 
Had given him victory by your presence. 

auEEN. 

Norreys, 
Trust me, 1 wish thee all that proud success 
Thy valour and thy truth deserve. 

NORREYS. 

That wish 
Is triumph — and my vaunting adversaries 
Are strewn already at ray feet. 

350 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



341 



QUEEN. 

Sir Henry, 
Such language "breathes of the blithe air of France ; 
It brings back recollections of my youth, 
When all my life was like a jocund dream, 
Or air of gayest music : — but, time presses — 
So Gentlemen, in the old Knightly phrase, 
Go bear you bravely for your Mistress' sake. 

WESTON, 

Our Mistress thus commanding, what true Knight 
Can fail or falter ? 

(iUEEN. 

Courteous words. Sir Francis ; 
But I mistake me or that name calls up 
Another — and, in truth, a fairer lady. 

WESTON. 

Not— as I live. 

aUEEN. 

Take heed ! false oath, false Knight : 
Enough of this— 

NORREYS. 

We kiss your Highness' hands, 
And with this talisman of strength set forth. 

QUEEN. 

Heaven prosper you ! 

[Mark Sjieaton kneels also. 
How now ? thou 'rt over-bold : 
Thou dost forget thy rank and station, youth ; 
Thou 'rt not, I deem, of gentle blood. 

MARK. 

No, no, 
A look suffices me. 

queen. 
Truth, noble Sirs, 
Vour gallantry 's infectious ; this poor youth 
Must needs admire and imitate your courtesies: 
Take heed that thou offend no more — be modest. 
As thou wert wont. And now to horse, Sir Knights — 
Go forward, and Heaven speed the brave and noble ! 

So now to Greenwich, to look gay and light 
As this May morning, with a heart as heavy 
As dull November; to be thought the happiest. 
Be the most wretched of all womankind. 

[Exeunt. 

Near Whitehall. 
Gardiner and Angelo. 

ANGELO. 

My Lord of Winchester — thou 'st seen the King? 

GARDINER. » 

I 've seen a raging madman loose ; he oame 
From Greenwich at full speed ; their horses seem'd 
Like those who ride for life from a lost battle : 
What hath befallen ? 

ANGELO. 

The game is won ere play'd ! 
It fires beyond our hopes, the sulphurous train 
Flames up, they're hnrl'd aloft, but not to Heaven. 
Wake, Hell ! and lift thy gates ; and ye, that tenant 



The deepest, darkest, most infuriate pit, 

Th' abyss of all abysses, blackest blackness. 

Where that most damning sin, the damning others. 

With direst, most remorseless expiation. 

Howls out its drear eternity, arouse 

The myriad voices of your wailing ; loud 

As when the fleshly Luther, or the chief 

Of his cursed crew have one by one gone down 

To tread your furnace chambers ! — Rise ! prepare 

The throne of fire, the crown of eating flames ! 

She comes— the Queen, the fatal Queen, whose beauty 

Hath been to England worse, more full of peril. 

Than Helen's was to Troy, hath seal'd for death. 

For death eternal, irremediable. 

Whole generations of her godless sons. 

And made her stately church a heap of ruin! 

GARDINER. 

I am no heretic : why keep me thus 
Upon the rack ? 

ANGELO. 

When slightest accidents 
Lead to effects that change the doom of nations, 
Dost thou not read the visible hand of Heaven ? 

GARDINER. 

Who questions it ? 

ANGELO. 

Why then behold — adore it ! 
My Lord, we 're wise and politic, but yet 
A foolish kerchief falling to the ground 
Shall more advance our high and righteous cause 
Than months of subtlest craft. 

GARDINER. 

Explain. 

ANGELO. 

I Stood 
Within the tilt-yard, not to take delight 
Carnal, unpriestly, in the worldly pageant : 
Though, Heaven forgive me! when the trumpets blew, 
And the lists fell, and Knights as brave, and full 
Of valour as their steeds of fire, wheel'd forth, 
And moved in troops or single, orderly 
As youths and maidens in a village dance, 
Or shot, like swooping hawks, in straight career; 
The old Caraffa rose within my breast — 
Struggled my soul with haughty recollections 
Of when I rode through the outpour'd streets of Rome, 
Enamouring all the youth of Italy 
With envy of my noble horsemanship. 
But I rebuked myself, and thought how Heaven 
Had taught me loftier mastery, to rein 
And curb with salutary governance 
Th' unmanaged souls of men. But to our purpose ; 
Even at the instant, when all spears were levell'd, 
And rapid as the arblast bolt, the Knights 
Spurr'd one by one to the ring, when breathless leant 
The Ladies from their galleries — from the Queens 
A handkerchief was seen to fall; but while 
Floating it dallied on the air, a Knight, 
Sir Henry Norreys, as I learnt, stoop'd down. 
Caught, wreaih'd it in his plume, regain'd his spear. 
And smote right home the ijuivering ring: th' acclaim 
Burst forth hke roaring waters, but the King 

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Sprang up, and call'd to horse, while tumult wild 
Broke up the marr'd and frighted ceremony. 

GARDINER. 

Something of this I augur'd : as the King 

Swept furious by, he beckon'd me; yet seem'd 

Too busied with his wrathful thoughts to heed 

Whom thus he summon'd ; and I heard him mutter 

" The saucy groom !" and terms, which to repeat 

Were not o'erfitting priestly lips, but coupled 

With the Queen's name most strangely. Seeing this, 

I thought it in mine office to administer 

Grave ghostly admonition, mingled well 

With certain homily and pulpit phrases 

Of man's ingratitude, and gracious Kings 

Whose bounties are abused ; the general looseness 

Of the age. The more I spake, the more he madden'd, 

As though my words were oil on fire. 

ANGELO. 

'Twas well, 
But must be better: I have further tidings. 
I pass'd the Tower, and saw Sir William Kingston, 
Summon'd 't was said, with special haste, come forth 
Among his archers. 

GARDXNEn. 

Ha ! there 's more in this. 

ANGELO. 

Prelate, there shall be— where 's the King ? 

GARDINER. 

I left him 
Near the apartment of Jane Seymour. 

ANGELO. 

Good! 
The field of battle where we have them all 
At vantage. — Lead me to him. 

GARDINER. 

Thee? 

ANGELO. 

What ! jealous still ? Then go thyself— be speedy. 
Thou lovest the King, my Lord of Winchester : 
Suits it thy reverence, then, and holy station. 
Nearest his heart, and in his closet counsels. 
That he retain a wanton in his bosom. 
When there is one hath damning evidence 
At peril of his life ? 

GARDINER. 

Where ? who ? 

ANGELO. 

The Man 

Am [. Thou seest, my Lord, thine all the glory. 

The gratitude for this great service — mine 

The peril. Strike, strike now, strike home, my Lord. 

GARDINER. 

I see it: as we pass, thou shalt unfold 

All that remains behind ; and, trust me. Brother, 

Thou shalt have thy reward. 

ANGELO. 

I shall — in- Heaven. 



Whitehall 

QUEEN. 

What can it mean ? Each face as I pass'd by 
Was gathering blackness ; and a silent pity 



Sate upon brows that turn'd aside to avoid me. 

The menials are infected : not a groom. 

As I descended from my litter, lent 

His hand to aid me ; and my ante-rooms 

Are mute and empty, even as though the plague 

Had tainted all the air. Well, what of this ? 

Oh, God of Grace ! thou 'rt bounteous still! Fall off 

The cumbrous trappings and appendages 

Of mine uneasy state, thou leavest me yet 

One far too old and one too young to change : 

My child, my Mother, and my Innocence, 

Shall make me up a blest society, 

An Empress girt about with handmaid-queens 

Might envy. — At her charge I left my Mother, 

Her charge, whose joy renews heryouth, and makes her 

Like some fond nurse o'er her first-born 

Lady Wiltshire. 

lady wiltshire. 

Come, come. 
She sleeps — thyself, dear Anne, not half so lovely: 
Come sit by her, and, gaze on her, for hours, 
For days : a violet on a bed of snow, 
A pearl in ivory set, the brightest star 
Where all are bright in the soft milky way — 
There 's no similitude she doth not shame. 
Her forehead arch'd by Heaven to fit a crown! 
I 've almost wish'd thou ne'er shouldst bear a boy. 
Dear Anne, to bar her from the throne she 's bom to. 

QUEEN. 

Mother, I follow thee. 

The above. Kingston and Guard. 

QUEEN. 

Ha ! in my chamber 
Arm'd men! Sir William Kingston, thou'rt o'erbold 
To press unbidden on our privacy. 

KINGSTON. 

By the King's special mandate, I attach 
Your Highness. 

QUEEN. 

Stay, Sir, as you hope for mercy. 
My mother ! she is old and fond — her heart 
Will break. Dear mother — back — go back — the King, 
Willing to do your daughter honour, sends 
Good Kingston and his guard. God pardon me! 
The first untruth that e'er defiled my lips. 
Now, Sir, your message : the King's Grace, I heard, 
In his displeasure for some weighty cause, 
Commands his Queen to prison ; I obey. Sir. 

KINGSTON. 

Your Majesty must hold yourself in readiness 
T' embark on the instant for the Tower. 

QUEEN. 

The Tower ! 
Oh, mother! mother! that the time should come 
When I should wish thee in thy quiet grave. 
My child — that I should wish thee yet unborn ; — 
Shall I find justice. Sir? (3) 

KINGSTON. 

The meanest subject 
In all the realm would not impeach the equity 

352 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



343 



Of the King's Grace with such a dangerous doubt. 
Your Highness ! 

auEE\. 
Start ye thus to see me laugh? 
There 's laughter that is grief's most bitter language. 
Laughter that hath no mirth — and such is mine. 
Lieutenant of the Tower, I tell thee this : 
I 've done. Sir, in my days, some good, through Christ; 
If they misjudge my cause, yea, but a jot, 
The fiery indignation from above 
Shall blast the bosom of this land, the skies 
Shall be as brass, nor rain nor drop of dew 
Shall moisten the adust and gaping earth. 

KINGSTON. 

I would beseech your Highness to compose 
Your too distemper'd mind. 

QUEEN. 

Where are the Bishops, 
The holy Bishops ? They will plead my cause, 
And make my enemies kneel at my footstool. 
I needs must laugh. Sir, but I '11 weep anon. 
Weep floods, weep life-blood, weep till every heart 
Shall ache and burst to see me. Now I '11 kneel — 
Behold me kneel! — and imprecate Heaven's vengeance 
If I 'm not guiltless. Come — away — away — 
Is your barge ready? Sooner to my judgment, 
Sooner to my deliverance. — So, back 
To those I dare not name, I dare not think of 



The Garden as before. 

AnGELO, M.iRK Smeaton. 

ANGELO. 

Good youth, I know not if it grieve me more, 
Thy fair preferment thus is nipp'd i' the bud. 
Or give me joy that thou hast 'scaped the snares 
That might have limed thy soul. 

MARK. 

Is it then true, Sir ? 
Is't possible? Thou art all truth, thou wilt not 
Torture my heart with such a hideous falsehood. 
There was a rude tall fellow with a halberd. 
Who spake of it, and with his villanous jests 
And fiendish laughter tainted the Queen's name. 
Her snowy, spotless, air-embalming name ! 
I told him to his teeth he lied ; and if 
His scoffing fellows had not troop'd around him, 
I 'd struck him to the earth. 

ANGELO. 

Rash boy, beware ! 
This sounds like treason. 

MARK. 

If the King himself 
Set such example to high heaven, cast off 
Its richest bounties with such insolent scorn. 
What wonder if ingratitude become 
The fashion of this court, and the most favour'd 
Change to the blackest traitors ? 

ANGELO. 

Mark, 't is true 
The Queen is order'd prisoner to the Tower — 
29* 



Most true ; yet know'st thou not the worst : the King 
Has changed to such a deadly hate against her, 
That she must die 

HARK. 

Die I die ! — No, Sir, no soul 
Will load itself with such a deep damnation : 
Earth would break out in execration, Heaven 
With unexampled thunders interdict 
The horrible sentence ! 

ANGELO. 

Youth, I'll trust thee farther. 
Come hither, close — thy love to thy lost mistress 
^Varrants my somewhat dangerous confidence : 
Siie stands between the King and a new lust — 
He must be widow'd, e'er his guilty heart 
Glut its foul appetite. 

MARK. 

Oh I reverend Father, 
Does not thy flesh grow cold, thy holy heart 
Sicken still more and more at this bad world ? 
For me, for me, she will so hallow death — 
She will so darken and make void this earth 
At her departure — I and all true servants 
Will seek out our untimely graves, to attend. 
Adore her, in a better world ; at least, 
Not live in this, when sunless of her presence. 

ANGELO. 

Now, as a heretic I love her not, 
But yet my charity would not she were cast, 
Where she must perish body and soul in hell ; 
I 'd have her live — live on, in shame and sorrow; 
For sorrow is the mother of true penitence. 

MARK. 

Is there no way to save her ? 

ANGELO. 

None. 

MARK. 

Then, farewell 
All hope, all joy in this world's wilderness, 
A barren waste of sand, the fountain dried 
That was its life and gladness. — 

ANGELO. 

None, but that 
At which our nature shudders, which would damn 
The name to blackest branded infamy. 
Would peril the eternal soul, would give 
The fiends such awful vantage, by a crime, 
A wilful crime, so like th' accursed Judas, 
That good men would not stay to seek the cause. 
But heap the head with merciless execration. 
Where shall we find, in these degenerate days. 
Devotion more than Roman? — Who will risk 
His fame, his soul, to save a woman's life. 
And give a heretic lime to pluck the brand 
Of her lost soul out of hell fire ? 

MARK. 

Good Father, 
Wrap not thy speech in darkness. 

ANGELO. 

If the King, 
On some just plea (and these new Gospellers 
Do admit none but foul adultery) 
Were but divorced — how long, how honourably 

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Lived the Imperial Catherine ! — which were best — 
Her sjxjiless name be tainted, or her body 
Writhe on a scaffold, and her soul in (lames? 

MARK. 

Horrible ! horrible ! — to live with name 
Spotted with shame, or die for aye ! 

ANGELO. 

E'en so — 
To bear a branded life, nor maid, nor widow, 
Not wife ; for who would wed a tainted outcast? 
She were beneath the lowest groom. 

MARK. 

True, true. 
On, I beseech you. Sir. 

ANGELO. 

Do we not force 
The deadliest poison down the best-loved lips, 
If, by its wholesome intervention, life 
Be prison'd in the mortal frame ? We hate 
At first the stern physician, but erewhile 
The wiser heart o'erflovis with grateful love. 

MARK. 

Good reverend Sir, tell me at once — directly, 
With no prudential riddling in thy phrase. 
What must he do would save the Queen? 

ANGELO. 

Avouch, 
And with a solemn oath, in the face of Heaven, 
That they have done together that foul sin 
That taints the lips to speak, the heart to think on. 

mark:. 
Oh ! but 't must be a nobler perjury. 
Who would believe th' impossible falsity 
Averr'd by baser lips ? 

ANGELO. 

Those that would fain 
Believe, are ne'er o'er-nice or scrupulous. 

MARK. 

Too much at once, with falsehood to blaspheme 
Such goodness, on this side of Heaven unknown, 
And be a base and perjured wretch ! 

ANGELO. 

The Church, 
On meet occasions — and what cause more noble 
Than possible redemption of a soul 
Like hers, sold captive to the heretic crew ? — 
Hath power to absolve the guilt of falsest oath.s. 

MARK. 

Dost say so ? 

ANGELO. 

Oh! that soft luxurious neck 
Bare on the cold dark block to lie, the axe 
Come gleaming down with horrid expedition — 

MARK. 

I -11 do 't 

ANGELO. 

Thou ! soft and timorous boy ! 

MARK. 

I '11 do 't, 
If fiends stand plucking at my soul, and Hell 
Yawn at my feet! Thou, Father, thou wilt case 
My soul in adamantine resolution. 
I '11 save her, if I die, on earth — for ever! 



Do with me as thou wilt — I '11 speak, I '11 swear, 
I '11 pull down good men's imprecations, Heaven's— 
No, Heaven will pardon if I save the heavenly! 
Upon my head rain curses, contumelies. 
She will erewhile be taught to bless me ; ways 
Will sure be found to teach her why I 've dared 
Thus 'gainst my nature, hold and false — she'll know it, 
She '11 know it all — my pains, my hopes, my truth ! — 



Anne Boleyn landing at ike Tower. 
Sir William Kingston, Guards. 
queen. 
Here — here, then, all is o'er! — Oh ! awful walls. 
Oh ! sullen towers, relentless gates, that open 
Like those of Hell, but to receive the doom'd. 
The desperate — Oh! ye black and massy barriers, 
But broken by yon barr'd and narrow loop-holes. 
How do ye coop from this God's sunshine world 
Of freedom and delight, your world of woe, 
Your midnight world, where all that live, live on 
In hourly agony of death! Vast dungeon. 
Populous as vast, of your devoted tenants ! 
Long ere our bark had touch'd the fatal strand, 
I felt your ominous shadows darken o'er me. 
And close me round ; your thick and clammy air, 
As thougii 'twere loaded with dire imprecations, 
Waitings of dying and of tortured men. 
Tainted afar the wholesome alm.osphere. 

KINGSTON {to the Guard). 
Advance your halberds. 

auEEN. 
Oh ! Sir, pause — one look, 
One last long look, to satiate all my senses. 
Oh I thou blue cloudless canopy, just tinged 
With the faint amber of the setting sun. 
Where one by one steal forth the modest stars 
To diadem the sky : — thou noble river. 
Whose quiet ebb, not like my fortune, sinks 
With gentle downfall, and around the keels 
Of those thy myriad barks inakest passing music:— 
Oh! thou great silent city, with thy spires 
And palaces, where I was once the greatest. 
The happiest — I, whose presence made a tumult 
In all your wondering streets and jocund marts : — 
But most of all, thou cool and twilight air. 
That art a rapture to the breath ! The slave, 
The beggar, the most base down-trodden outcast, 
The plague-struck livid wretch, there 's none so vile, 
So abject, in your streets, that swarm with life — 
They may inhale the liquid joy Heaven breathes — 
They may behold the rosy evening sky — 
They may go rest their free limbs where they will : 
But I — but I, to whom this summer world 
Was all bright sunshine ; I, whose time was noted 

But by succession of delights Oh ! Kingston, 

Thou dost remember, thou wert then Lieutenant, 
'T is now — how many years ? — my memory wanders 
Since I set forth from yon dark low-brow'd porch, 
A bride — a monarch's bride — King Henry's bride? 
Oh! the glad pomp, that burn'd upon the waters — 
Oh! the rich streams of music that kept time 

354 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



U5 



With oars as musical — the people's shouts, 

That call'd Heaven's blessings on my head, in sounds 

That might have drown'd the thunders 1 've more 

need 
Of blessing now, and not a voice would say it. 

KINGSTON. 

Your Grace, no doubt, will long survive this trial. 

auEEN. 
Sir, Sir, it is too late to flatter me : 
Time was I trusted each fond possibility. 
For hope sate queen of all my golden fortunes ; 
But now 

KINGSTON. 

Day wears, and our imperious mandate 
Brooks no delay — advance. 

QUEEN. 

Back, back, I say ! — 
I will not enter! Whither will ye plunge me? 
Into what chamber, but the sickly air 
Smells all of blood — the black and cobweb'd walls 
Are all o'ertraced by dying hand, who've noted 
In the damp dews indelible their tale 
Of torture — not a bed nor straw-laid pallet 
But bears th' impression of a wretch call'd forth 
To execution. Will ye place me there. 
Where those poor babes, their crook-back'd uncle 

murder'd. 
Still haunt ? — Inhuman hospitality ! 
Look there ! look there ! fear mantles o'er my soul 
As with a prophet's robe, the ghostly walls 
Are sentinel'd with mute and headless spectres, 
Whose lank and grief-attenuated fingers 
Point to their gory and dissever'd necks, 
The least and lordly noble, some like princes : 
Through the dim loop-holes gleam the haggard faces 
Of those, whose dark unutterable fate 
Lies buried in your dungeons' depths; some wan 
With famine, some with writhing features fix'd 
In the agony of torture. — Back ! I say : 
They beckon me across the fatal threshold, 
Which none may pass and live. 

KINGSTON. 

The deaths of traitors. 
If such have died within these gloomy towers. 
Should not appal your Grace with such vain terrors; 
The chamber is prepared where slept your Highness 
When last within the Tower. 

QUEEN. 

Oh ! 't is too good 
For such a wretch — a death-doom'd wretch, as me. 
My Lord, my Henry — he that call'd me forth 
Even from that chamber, with a voice more gentle 
Than flutes o'er calmest waters — will not wrong 
Th' eternal Justice — the great law of Kings! 
Let him arraign me — bribe as witnesses 
The angels that behold our inmost thoughts. 
He 'II find no crime but loving him too fondly ; 
1 And let him visit that with his worst vengeance. 
Come, Sir, your wearied patience well may fail : 
On to that chamber, where I slept so sweetly, 
When guiltier far than now. On — on. good Kingston. 
2 T 



Wkilehatl. 
King Henry and Attendants. 

KING. ^ 

'Sdeath ! ye 're all traitors : the King's bed defiled, 

And by his grooms, and ye must pause and parley 

For proof and witness ! Find me demonstration. 

Or I '11 be law, witness, and judge. A King 

]\ot to cast off a wanton from his bed, 

But must be trammel'd, thwarted, check'd, control'd 

By quirks of law, old formal statutes, rolls 

Of parchment scribled o'er with musty phrases! 

I '11 let you know our will 's this kingdom's law. 

Where 's Norreys ? 

ATTENDANT. 

He awaits your Highness' pleasure. 

KING. 

Come hither, Norreys: we have loved, have trusted 

you — 
Could you find out no nobler way than this 
Of being a traitor? could your daring lust 
Stoop to no humbler paramour than our Queen ? 

NORREYS. 

Your pardon, Sire, but save your Highness' presence, 
Show me the man dare taint my name with treason, 
I 'd dash my gauntlet in his face, and choke 
Th' audacious lie within his venomous throat. 
And more, excepting still my Liege's person. 
Whoe'er hath slander'd the Queen's honour, be it 
With me, or Knight far worthier of her favour, 
I do defy that man to mortal battle. 
Body to body, as a Knight — I '11 prove him 
The most convicted, recreant, foulest slanderer, 
Whose breath e'er soil'd a Lady's spotless name ! 

KING. 

Thou hast done us service, Norreys ; for that reason. 

Though we impeach our honour by our mercjr, 

Confess, if treacherous opportunity 

Or her too easy virtue did allure thee, 

(For in the heat and wild distemperature 

Of passion, noblest souls forget themselves). 

Be bold, be dauntless, but be true : we pledge 

The honour of a king, to give thee back 

Thy forfeit life ; for look ye, she shall die — 

She and her minions ! — Stand thou forth our witness, 

Perchance, beside thy life, our grace may find 

Some meet return. 

NORREYS. 

I do beseech your Highness, 
What act of mine in all my life avouches 
The slanderous hope, to buy or life, or what 
I value more, my Sov'reign's gracious favour, 
I 'd perjure mine own soul, accuse the blameless? 
My Liege, you are abused — foully abused I 
Some devil hath beset your easy ear. 
If you strike off this unoffending head. 
Your Majesty will lose a faithful servant — 
That 's soon replaced ; but for the Queen, I say, 
And will maintain it with my life, the best, 
The chastest Queen, the closest nun in Europe, 

Is Messalina to a \'eslal 

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346 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Off! 
Away with him* to the Tower. — What! have we 

stoop'd 
Thus to be gracious, to be scorn'd and rated, 
And by our slaves ? 

Tke above. Winchester. 

KING. 

Why how now, Winchester? 
Another Churchman come t' impeach his King, 
And with mock charitable incredulity 
Arraign his justice ? I 'd but now a missive 
From Cranmer ; — he, forsooth, good blameless man. 
Knowing no sin himself, believes there 's none 
In others. — 'Sdeath! I'll hear no more excuses; 
The fact 's as clear, or shall be, as yon Sun. 
Thou think'st her guiltless ? 

GARDINER. 

Till this hour, my Liege, 
I could have pledged my life, sworn strongest oaths 
That such a monstrous sin — a sin that darkens 
The annals oi mankind, makes us suspect 
Some moral plague broke out in human nature — 
Had been impossible. Oh ! best and greatest, 
That best and greatest to ungrateful men 
Should be a license thus to wrong the bounties 
By which they lived! — And that the Queen — raised up 
From a Knight's daughter to the throne of England — 
A partner of King Henry's bed — the strange, 
Th' unnatural act doth give itself the lie ! 
It doth outargue closest demonstration, 
And make us rather deem our senses traitors 
Than trust the assurance of most damning proofs. 

KING. 

Ha! proofs? 

GARDINER. 

Would there were none, my Liege, who bears 
Tidings of shame to an abused husband. 
That husband too a King, a glorious King — 
Sire, my ungracious presence still will seem 
A base remembrancer of these foul deeds. 
Odious as they 

KING. 

Your proofs, good Prelate, proofs. 

GARDINER. 

Is the confession of the guilty, forced 
By no stern tension of the searching rack, 
]Vor laceration of the bleeding flesh. 
But free, unbribed, unsought 

KI.NG. 

Ha! which! 

GARDINER. 

My Liege, 
'T is that outdoes all record of old crime. 
Makes true all tales of fabulous wantonness ; 
It is the boy — the beardless boy ! — Oh ! lust. 
Blind as unbridled, frantic as impure. 
That no discrimination knows, nor choice 
Of base from noble, foul from fair — to fall 
From the allow'd embrace of such a king — 



Now, by St Paul! thou wear'st our patience. — Speak, 
How got ye this ? look ye confirm it. 

GARDINER. 

Sire, 
May 't please your Highness, that a holy Friar, 
Albeit I know your Grace for weightiest reasons 
Mistrusts their order, hath perpetual access 
Unto the prisoner Smeaton. 

KING. 

Ha ! a priest 
r the plot — why then 't is ripe and pregnant. Gardiner, 
We are bound to thee. My Lord of Winchester, 
Look thou make good this charge against our Queen, 
Or, by St. Paul! thou shalt have cause to rue it. 
So, back to Greenwich ; we '11 go hunt the deer! 
Blow horns— yell dogs — we '11 have a gorgeous day! 
The sun is in the Heavens, and our high heart 
Is mounting with him. Off— to horse— to horse. 



The Tower. 

QUEEN. 

" Blessed are those that weep." — Oh ! truth of truths, 

Not understood till felt — thou grace of Heaven, 

Spirit of Christ, thou didst not all forsake me. 

When my whole life was like a banquet — served 

By Pride and Luxury — dangerous cup-bearers. 

Prayers, all unwonted on the dainty couch, 

Where Queens are lapt in purple, fail'd not me; 

Mine heart, a place forbid to pain or sorrow. 

Thou didst incline to other's grief: I read 

In the deep lines of woe-worn cheeks, the bliss 

Of resignation to the Eternal will ; 

And felt, admired, adored the Christian beauty 

Of graces that I had no scope to practise. 

But now, oh Christ ! that thou vouchsafest me 

The mercy of affliction — oh ! the warmth 

Of prayer that burns upon my lips, the deep, 

The full religion that o'erflows my heart. 

My cited thoughts stand ready at my call, 

And undistracted memory ranges o'er 

My map of life — where it is wilderness 

Or weed-o'ergrown, pour streams of penitence; 

But where the sunshine of Heaven's grace, though 

cross'd 
By hasty clouds of earthly passion, gleams 
Upon the golden harvest of good deeds, 
It glorifies that Sun in humblest thankfulness. 
Thee, therefore, amiable prison, ihee — 
Oh! Solitude — dreadful in apprehension; 
When present, to the friendless, the best friend! 
Henceforth will I esteem, as much beyond 
The pride and press of courts, as I feel nearer 
To Heaven within you. 

Queen, Cran.mer. 

aUEEN. 

Good my Lord .Archbishop, 
I will not wrong thee by the idle question 
Why here? 'T is sorrow's dwelling, and thou art here 
But in obedience to thy heart and function. 

356 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



347 



CRANMER. 

I come not, Lady, to erect anew 

The much misused Confessional, where Sins 

Best hid in shameful silence, or wrung forth 

In voiceless anguish, to Heaven's midnight ear, 

Are acted o'er again in foul recital : — 

But oh, if thou art fallen, the saintliest pupil 

In our young school of Christian graces, thou 

That to the hving fountain of the Gospel 

Camest duly, to draw forth the eternal waters, 

What infamy will blacken o'er our cause ! 

A horror of deep darkness hath oppress'd 

The Church, that waits in awful hope th' event. 

aUEEN. 

Cranmer, behold this book, my sole companion, 

Yet whose sweet converse makes my prison day 

So short, I 'ra fain t' encroach upon the night. 

Sir, were I guilty (and in truth I know 

My crime but vaguely), there 's a passage here 

Of one detected in such nameless sin. 

That had been blotted with my scalding tears : 

'Tis stainless, and in truth unread ; nor ask I 

If my accusers are less deep in sin. 

If I am guilty, let who will cast first 

The avenging stone, and heap the death upon me. 

CRANMER. 

Heaven's Grace be praised! but oh! the obdurate King. 

QUEEN. 

There 's death in thy sad looks: speak, I '11 endure it. 
He that has placed this cross upon my shoulders 
Will give me strength to bear it. I defy not, 
With boastfulness unfeminine, the shame, 
The agony ; nor yet ungrateful speak 
As weary of a world only too full 
Of joyance. Thou, my child, wouldst well rebuke 
Thy mother's selfish soul if she could leave thee 
Without a rending of her heart-strings : thou 
Not less, my mother ! most of all, my husband ! 
I If unreluctant I could load thy soul 
With the foul crime of my judicial murder; 
Even our afflicted Church may ill sustain 
The loss of my unworthy aid. 

CRANMER. 

Oh ! rate not 
Thus low your faithful service : farewell now 
Vain hope, that the whole land should hear the Word 
I Of God go forlh on all the winds ; no more 
. Fatigue the deaf cold Saint with fruitless pray'r, 
1 Or kiss with pilgrim lips the unheeding shrine: 
That not a village, not a silent hamlet 
In mountain solitude, or glen, of traveller 
Untrod, should want its sabbath bell to knoll 
To purest worship : that a holy priesthood. 
Chaste, simple, to themselves alone severe. 
Poor below luxury, rich beyond contempt, 
Environ'd with their heaven-led families. 
Should with their lives'most saintly eloquence 
Preach Christ — Christ only: — while all reverend 

Learning 
In arch'd cathedral cloister, or the grove 
That bosoms deep the calm and thoughtful college, 
Should heavenward mediate, and bring to earth 
The knowledge learnt amid the golden stars. 
2T 



But now shall irreligious Avarice 

Pluck from his lips the Scholar's dole— the Temples 

Lie desecrate in ruin — or the night 

Of ancient ignorance and error sink 

On the dark land for ever and for ever. 

QUEEN. 

Alas! Sir, why enamour me with life. 

Making me deem myself of value here. 

Here in this world, which I must leave ? — So young 

To be cut ofT, and so untimely ! cast 

A blooming branch to the cold grave! Yet Heaven, 

Whose cause it is, will raise defenders up. 

My child ! my daughter! oh prophetic soul! 

I dare not trust, yet will not disbelieve 

Thy glorious omens. Good my Lord Archbishop, 

Thou 'It not endure these knees should grow to earth, 

To less than Heaven; but I adjure thee, watch 

Her ripening spirit, sow the seed, ne'er lost 

Though cast on the waste waters. 

CRANMER. 

Heaven but grant 
The life and power ! 

QUEEN. 

T' another subject now. 
My sins, my sins ! 

CRANMER. 

Of them to Christ alone ; — 
That heart bleeds freeliest that inly bleeds. 

QUEEN. 

Bear with me yet, my Lord, for I must tax 
Your kindness further. There is one, but one 
In all this world, my memory names, hath cause 
To think of me as of her enemy. 
The Lady Mary ; for a dying woman 
Entreat her pardon. I 've a letter here. 
Written to the King with such poor eloquence 
As I am mistress of; beseech thee hear it ; 
Then, if thou wilt, be thou the bearer of it. 

The Letter. (4) 
" Sire, your displeasure and imprisonment 
Are all so strange to me, that what to write 
I know not, what t' excuse : you sent erewhile 
Mine enemy to urge me to confess, 
And so secure your favour; — willingly, 
If to confess a truth might purchase me 
My ne'er-despised safety — but imagine not 
Your wife will own a sin ne'er soil'd her thoughts. 
Never had Prince a wife so loyal — duteous, 
So to affection true, as your Anne Boleyn. 
That name and place had been my life's content, 
God and your Grace so willing it ; yet ne'er 
Forgot I, that the fancy which had raised me 
Might wander to another fairer object. 
You chose me, nor deserving, nor desiring. 
Your Queen and Partner : — having so honour'd rae. 
Good, your Grace, let no light unworthy motive, 
Nor my malicious enemies' false counsel, 
Withdraw your favour from me, lest the stain, 
Th' indelible stain of a disloyal heart. 
Attaint your duteous wife and royal daughter. 
Try me, good King, but with a lawful trial, 

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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Not with my foes my judges — try me openly ; 

So shall my innocence shine forth as day, 

Your nice and jealous honour be absolved, 

Th' opprobrious voice of the world's slander silenced: — 

Or by the \UKloubted plainness of my guilt, 

Your Grace escape all censure of rash harshness, 

And God and man approve th' extremest rigour 

Of vengeance on a lawless wife : — then freely 

Your Grace may follow that your heart's affection, 

Fix'd where I know, but where I may not name. 

But if my death, worse than my death, my shame. 

In your high councils is already doom'd, 

I make my prayer to God to pardon you. 

To blot this most unprincely usage of me 

From your account, when thou and I shall meet 

Before his judgment throne, where I shall stand. 

Judge howsoe'er the world, in saintly whiteness. 

I 've but one more request ; on me alone. 

If it must fall, fall all thy wrath — Oh! touch not 

The innocent lives of those poor gentlemen 

In prison for my sake. If e'er thy wife 

Found favour in thy sight— if e'er thine ear 

Found music in Anne Boleyn's name — deny not 

This last, this dying prayer. No more I trouble thee. 

The Holy Trinity keep your good Grace 

In health, life, happiness, and holiness. 

Written from my doleful prison in the Tower, 
Your loyal and most faithful wife, Anne Boleyn." 

CRANMER. 

God, that can make the marble heart like wax, 
Make this his instrument of grace ! 

QUEEN. 

Amen. 



A Prison in the Tower. 
Angelo. 



ANGELO. 

Down, impotent remorse ! temptation, down ! 
My soul abjures thee! and thou, carnal pride, 
That wilt not use the means this world calls base 
For that great end, I' advance the faith of Christ! 
What if the span of some few mortal lives 
Be somewhat shrunk, some eyes untimely closed 
On this world's Sun, will not ten thousand souls 
Live through eternity's unfathom'd years. 
And a whole nation walk in mortal light ? 
'Tis but the wise relentlessness of Heaven. 
Doth the dread earthquake feel remorse, that makes 
A populous city one vast tomb, where Guilt 
And Innocence lie side by side ? Does Pity 
Pale the blue cheek of pestilence, that blasts 
Whole nations? Doth the sweeping deluge pause. 
And hold suspended its vast weight of waters. 
To give the righteous time to fly the ruin ? 
The best, the wisest, holiest Saints and Pontiffs 
Have sent tierce war with undiscerning vengeance 
To waste the heretic's land; lor though just Heaven 
Turn from the field of carnage — from the city 
Made desolate, far rather it beholds them. 
Than the fierce lossings of the infernal pit, 



And Hell made rich with everlasting souls. — 
Here are but two: one guiltless, and one guilty. 
On — and be fearless — on, my soul ! 

He sleeps ; 
Poor wretch, thou 'It sleep ere long more deep — he 
dreams. 

MARK {in his sleep.) 

Her voice — her voice — ye heard her lute-like voice. 
Who loosed these bonds, who led me forth from death? 

'T was I, your servant, I 

Where am I ? — who 
And what art thou ? — The Father Angelo ! 
Oh ! sleep, sweet sleep, art thou a prophetess. 
Or but a gracious and most kind deceiver? 
Oh ! palace-builder — oh ! thou Queen of bridals. 
That in the silent prison makest the bells 
Sound for the jocund marriage — oh ! magician, 
With realm of witchcraft wide as thought — time, place, 
And circumstance, combine, and shift, and change. 
Like spirits on thy sorcerous wand that wait. 
And all things are that are not — night is day. 
Grief joy, death life, th' impossible becomes 
Breathing reality ; thou dost take up 
Th' unpillow'd beggar, and dost proudly seat him 
Upon a throne — dost bring the Queen of queens 
Down to the level of a boy like me. 

ANGELO. 

Mark Smeaton, I am here to know thy purpose, 
Thy calm deliberate purpose : yet 't is time 
To disavow thy dangerous evidence — 
Yet, but not long : I saw the Judges pass 
Across the court, and one that bare an axe 
Went first, as to denote they sate in judgment 
Upon a capital crime. 

MARK. 

Then she must die — 
If by mine oath she is found guilty, who 
Shall intercept that bloody instrument ? — 

ANGELO. 

There has been stir and parleying to and fro 
Concerning a pre-contract, said to exist 
Between the Queen, when young, and the Lord Piercy; 
And wherefore this, but the relenting King 
Would be content to break the chain asunder 
That galls him. 

MARK. 

Yet to swear — before high Heaven — 
All-seeing Heaven ! — Heaven, that in thunder spake 
The stern command, "Thou shalt not bear false wit- 
ness!" 

ANGELO. 

'T is well : — what is 't to thee if the fierce King 

Add to his ruthless soul the crime of murder? 

And one unhousel'd heretic more bear down, 

Her soul all leprous with its gangrene taint, 

To burn for endless ages ? 1 had brought 

The deposition, that but wants thy signet 

And oath before some witnesses that wait 

r the court without — but to flames with it. 

And to the block with her — not worth the jeoparding 

The immortal spirit 

358 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



349 



MARK. 

Not worth ! — if 't were but death, 
To go to sleep in the cold grave, and know 
That she walk'd harmless in the living world. 
Oh ! Sir, but Hell has some thrice darkest chamber, 
Some outcast dwelling, where the perjured hear 
The hissing and the execration of the damn'd. 

ANGELO. 

Crime is not crime but in its motive : — thou 
Art false but to be true — false to her fame. 
True to her better interests. — But I came not 
To argue. Yet when thou go'st hence, take heed 
Thou pass not o'er the hill where Traitors die ; 
Lest, trammel'd in the press, thou 'rt forced to see, 
From first to last, the hideous deed — the stroke, 
The agony, the despair, the writhing hands. 
The sever'd neck, the cry to Heaven, that Heaven 
Shall turn away from, and 

MARIi. 

Give me the paper; 
Let me not read it, lest its hideous falsehood 
Shake my faint resolution. There — 'tis done ! 

ANGELO. 

What, hoi within, — ye see this youth deliver 
This instrument as his own deed. 

WITNESSES. 

We do. 

ANGELO. 

Now in and sleep again. 

MARK. 

Sleep ! — never more ; 
The perjured do not sleep ; the slanderers, those 
That bear false witness — yet Heaven knows, and 

Heaven 
Will pardon — and she too, like Heaven, will know. 
Like Heaven will pardon! Sir, I cannot think 
Thou hast deceived me; if thou hast, the tortures 
Of all eternity will be too short 
T' avenge this wicked subornation ! 

ANGELO. 

Peace ! 

MARK. 

Oh ! pardon. Sir, ray thoughts do swim so strangely ; 

Things all so monstrous and incredible 

Have come to pass, there 's nought that seems too 

strange, 
And nothing is but what could never be. 
That thou, a man of such strict saintliness, 
Shouldst be so false, finds credit with me only 
Because it is impossible, and far 
Beyond the reach and scope of our belief. 



Hail in the Tower. 



Duke of Norfolk, Duke of Suffolk, Marquis 
Exeter, and others as Judges. The Queen and 
Officers. 

NORFOLK. 

Read our commission. 

OFFICER. 

Thomas Duke of Norfolk, 
The Duke of Suffolk, Marquis Exeter, 



Earl Arundel, and certain other p§ers 
Here present ; ye are met in the Tower of London, 
By special mandate from the King, t' arraign 
Of certain dangerous and capital treasons 
Against the peace and person of the King 
Anne, Queen of England. 

CRIER. • 

Come into the Court, 
Anne, Queen of England. 

QUEEN. 

Here. 

OFFICER. 

Anne, Queen of England 
(Be seated, it beseems your Grace's station), 
Look on this Court, these peers of England, met, 
By the King's high commission, to pass sentence 
Between thyself and the King's Grace — hast aught 
T' object ere thou 'rt arraign'd ? 

QUEEN. 

T 'd thought, my Lords, 
It had stood more with the King's justice, more 
With the usage of the land, a poor weak woman 
Had not been forced t' abide your awful ordeal 
Alone and unadvised; that Counsel, learn'd 
In forms of law, and versed by subtle practice 
In forcing from the bribed or partial witnesses 
Th' unwilling truth, had been assign'd me. — Well, 
Be 't as it is — I have an advocate 
Gold cannot fee, nor circumstance appal ; 
An advocate, whose voiceless eloquence, 
If it should fail before your earthly court, 
Shall in a higher gain me that acquittal 
Mine enemies' malice may deny me here — 
Mine Innocence. Proceed. 

OFFICER. 

Anne, Queen of England, 
Thou stand 'st arraign'd, that treasonously and foully, 
To the dishonour of his Highness' person 
And slander of his issue, thou hast conspired 
With certain Traitors, now convict and sentenced — 
George, Viscount Rochford, Henry Norreys, Knight, 
Sir William Brereton, Francis Weston, Knights, 
And one Mark Smeaton, 

QUEEN. 

Pause, Sir ; heard I rightly 
My Brother's name. Lord Rochford's? I beseech you. 
My Lords, what part bears he in this Indictment ? 

OFFICER. 

The same with all the rest. 

QUEEN. 

Great God of Thunder, 
Refrain thy bolt! — my Lords, there are among ye 
Have noble Sisters, if ye deem this possible, 
I do consent ye deem it true. Go on, Sir. 

OFFICER. 

And one Mark Smeaton. 

QUEEN. 

Would they make me smile 
With iteration of that name — a meet 
And likely lover for King Henry's Queen ! 

NORFOLK. 

Read, now, the Depositions. Each and all, 
My Lords, ye have perused that dangerous paper 

359 



350 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Written by the I,ady VVingfield, now deceased — 
Heard sundry evidence of words unseemly 
And most unroyal spoken by her Grace. 

The Depositions ! good, my Lord — 1 'd thought 
T' have seen my accusers face to face : is this 
The far renown'd and ancient English Justice? 

OFFICER. 

The Deposition of Lord Viscount Rochford : — 
That for tli' impossible and hideous charge, 
His soul abhors it with such sickly loalhing, 
Words cannot utter it : to stab the babe 
r the mother's arms, to beat the brains from out 
A father's hoary head, had been to nature 
Less odious, less accurst. 

auEEN. 
There spake ray brother. 

OFFICER. 

The Deposition of Sir Henry Norreys: 

That the Queen's Grace is as the new-born babe 

For him( — for others, he will prove her so 

In mortal combat 'gainst all England. 

Sir Francis W^eston — doth deny all guilt, 

With an asseveration, if in thought 

Or word he hath <lemoan'd hor Grace's honour. 

He imprecates Heaven's instant thunder-bolt. 

Sir William Rrercton — if all women here 

In England were as blameless as her Grace, • 

The Angels would mistake this land for Heaven. 

Mark Smeaton doth confess 

QUEEN. 

Confess ! 

OFFICER. 

That twice 
In guilty commerce with the Queen 

aUEEN. 

My Ix)rds, 
Who is it hath suborn'd this wretched boy ! 
I do arraign that man, in the dread court 
Whose sentence is eternity ! My soul 
Shall rise in judgment, when the Heavens are fire 
Around Christ's burning throne, against that man; 
And say on earth he murder'd my poor body. 
And that false .swearing boy's lost soul in Hell. 

OFFICER. 

This full confession — sign'd and in the sight 

Of witnesses deliver'd, in due form 

Of law, in every part clear and authentic. 

NORFOLK. 

Anne, Queen of England, ere this high commission 
Pass to their final sentence, hast thou aught 
To urge upon their Lordships in defence 
Or palliation of these fearful charges? 

ailEEN. 

My Lords ! th' unwonted rigour of the King 
And mine imprisonment have something shaken 
My constant state of mind : I do beseech you, 
If I speak not so reverently or wisely 
Of the King's justice as I ought, bear with me. 
I will not say, that some of you, my Lords, 
For my religion and less weighty motives. 
Are my sworn enemies — 't were to disparage 



The unattaintcd whiteness of my cause, 
That had defied the malice of the basest, 
Nor deigns mistrust the high-soul'd enmity 
Of English Nobles. When that I have forced you 
To be the vouchers for my honesty. 
My fiime's pure gold shall only blaze the brighter, 
Tried in the furnace of your deadly hate ! 
My I^rds, the King, whose bounties, numberless 
And priceless, neither time nor harsher usage 
Shall ever raze from my heart's faithful tablets — 
The King, I say, look me an humble maid, 
With not a jewel but my maiden fame: 
That I 'm his wife, seeing the infinite distance 
Between my Father's daughter and a throne. 
Argues no base or lowly estimate. 
Think ye a crown so galling to the brows. 
And a Queen's name so valueless, that false 
And recreant to the virtue which advanced me, 
I should fiill off thus basely? — I am a mother. 
My Lords, and hoped that my right royal issue 
Should rule this realm: had I been worse than worst. 
Looser than loosest — think ye I 'd have peril'd 
The pride of giving birth to a line of Kings, 
.And robb'd my children of their sceptred heritage? 
Your proofs, my Lords ! — some idle words, that spoken 
By less than me, had been forgotten air : 
The force of words dwells not on their mere letters, 
But in the air, time, place, and circumstance 
In which they 're utter'd — the poor laughing child 
Will call him.self a King, will ye indite him 
Of treason ? If less solemnly I 've spoken 
Or gravely than beseem'd my (lueenly stale, 
'T w.xs partly that his (jrace would take delight 
In hearing my light laughing words glance off; 
As is the wont in gay and courtly France: — 
Partly, that raised from such a lowly state 
Haply to fall again, I walch'd my spirit. 
Lest with an upstart pride I might (iffond 
The noble Knights whose service honour'd me. 
If thus I 've err'd through humbleness fimiiliar. 
Heaven will forgive the fiiult, though man be mer- 
ciless ! 
To the rest, my Lords ! knowing nought living dared 
Attaint my fame, my enemies have ransack'd 
The grave; the Lady Wingfield hath been summon'd 
To speak against me from her lomb — and what? — 
Vague rumours! that I will not say base Envy 
(I '11 have more charity to the dead than they 
To me), but pardonable error, zeal 
For the King's honour, may have swollen to charges, 
Which if ye trust, not the shrined Vestal 's pure 
My Lords, my Lords, ye better know than I 
What subtle arts, what gilded promises 
Have been employ'd to make the noble Knights 
My fellow criminals, my Accusers! which 
Might not have purchased life by ihis base service. 
And crept into a late and natural grave? 
But let me ask, my Lords, who, base enough. 
And .so disloyal, as t' abuse thus grossly 
The bounties of so good a King, had risen 
To thi.s wild prodigality of honour. 
For a loose woman to lay down his head 
And taint his name, his blood with infamy ? 

360 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



351 



For Ihis besotted boy I — my Lords, I know not 

If" to rebut this charge with serious speech ; 

Such as it is, my Lords, this modest beauty 

Made me a Queen, and other Kings disdain'd not 

To lay their flattering incense at its shrine. 

My Lords, there 's none amongst your noblest sons, 

Rich in ancestral titles, none so moulded 

By nature's cunning symmetry, so high 

In station, but my favour had endaiiger'd 

His truth t' his King: — and I, I that disdain'd 

Less than a crown, with wayward wantonness 

Demean me to a half form'd, base-born slave! — 

I do demand — if that ye will not damn 

Your names to everlasting infamy — 

Here in this court, this instant, ye bring forth 

This boy : if with one word I force you not 

To do me justice on this monstrous slander — 

Do with me as ye will. I 've done, and now 

Renew an old petition : — if the King, 

Abused and cheated of his wonted mercies, 

Hath sworn my death ; — so order it, I pray you, 

That on my head alone fall all his wrath : 

Let these untainted gentlemen go free. 

And mine all-honour'd Brother. Spare the King 

The anger of unnecessary crime, 

And with less blood defile your own fair names. 

NORFOLK. 

Anne, Queen of England, first this Court commands 
You lay aside the state and ornaments 
Of England's Queen. 

QUEEN. 

As cheerfully, my Lords, 
As a young bride her crown of virgin flowers. 

NORFOLK. 

Prisoner, give ear! I, Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, 

In the name of all th' assembled Peers, declare 

The verdict of this court: — all circumstance, 

All proof, all depositions duly weigh'd. 

We do pronounce thee guilty of High Treason. — 

And, further, at the pleasure of the King, 

Adjudge thy body to be burnt with fire, 

Or thine head sever'd from thy guilty shoulders. 

auEEN. 
Lord God of Hosts ! — the way ! the truth ! the life ! 
Thou knovv'st me guiltless; yet, oh! visit not 
On these misjudging men their wrongful sentence — 
Show them that mercy they deny to me. 
My Lords, my Lords, your sentence I impeach not! 
Ye liSve, no doubt, most wise and cogent reasons. 
Best heard perhaps in th' open court, to shame 
The wretched evidence adduced. My Lords, 
I ask no pardon of my God, for this 
Of which ye 've found me guilty — to the King 
In person and in heart I 've been most true. 
Haply I 've been unwise, irreverent, 
And with unseemly jealousies arraign'd 
His unexampled goodness. This I say not 
To lengthen out my too protracted life, 
For God hath given, will give me strength to die. 
I am not so proudly honest, but the grief 
Of my suspected chastity is gall 
And wormwood to me ; vi'ere 't not my sole treasure, 
It less had pain'd me thus to see it blacken'd. 
30 



My Lords, I take my leave : — upon your heads. 
Upon your families, on all this kingdom. 
On him who is its head and chiefest grace. 
The palm of Europe's sovereignty, may Heaven 
Rain blessings to the end of time — that most. 
And most abundant, his redeeming grace ! 



A prison. 
Magdalene, Mark Smeaton. 
magdalene. 
Oh! Mark, Mark, Mark, to find thee here, and thus! 
Brother, that I should come to shame through thee ! 
Through thee, my heart's one pride ! I pray'd my way 
Through mockingmen tofind thee. Somedidspurnme, 
Did almost void their rheum on me ; and some 
Pitied me with more barbarous charily 
That I 'm thy Sister ; thou whom I had chosen 
Before the proudest Knight of all the Court. 
And thou must die — all croak'd that in mine ear, 
The Ravens ! All in drear accord. — 

MARK. 

Die! die! 
Oh ! yes — the solemn forms must be gone through, 
And the stern sentence read and register'd. 
And then! — oh then! what pride of rank, what dis- 
tance 
Shall keep two branded criminals asunder? 
Oh ! pardon me, that thus my selfish soul 
Rejoice in thy debasement: thou wilt know 
What I have risk'd, have sufTer'd, all for thee. ' 
Oh ! what 's the world — its infamy — its pride — 
To those that love ? they 're their own world. 

MAGDALENE. 

Oh! Mark, 
Dear Mark, this dreadful prison, and the awe 
Of death — the guilt — o\\ ! would I dared deny it; 
The guilt hath made thee frantic : not a word 
Hath meaning to mine ears — thou look'st on me, 
Not as a man condemn'd to die, with eyes 
All gleaming with a horrid joy. 

MARK. 

Thou, too. 
Thou only, Magdalene, shalt find free entrance 
To the retired garden of our joy. 

The above. Angelo. 

MARK. 

Oh! Father Angelo! is she set free? 

Where is she gone ? may I yet follow her. 

And tell her with what violence to my soul 

I 've forced and bow'd myself to crime to save her? 

ANGELO. 

She will be free anon ; thou first. 

MARK. 

Dost say so ? 
Now will I wait, and linger all unseen ; 
And when the massy doors roll back, and slow 
The huge portcullis groans along its grooves. 
And down the drawbridge falls — I shall behold her, 
Along the frowning files of gloomy archers, 
Come gliding like a swan on turbid waters. 

361 



352 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A.NGELO. 

Deceive thyself no more — I spake of freedom, 
For death it is that frees th' encumber'd spirit 
From the dark prison of this world ; nor she 
Nor thou shall ever pass these iron gates, 
But to th' appointed stroke of death. 

MAGDALENE. 

Look, look ! 
He cannot speak ! he chokes, he shivers ! — look. 
He 's dying. Oh! already you have kill'd him. 
My Brother, awake I 

ANGELO. 

Oh ! youth, whom Heaven hath chosen 
For its blind instrument to work the ruin 
Of its most deadly enemy, I 'm come 
To fit thee for thy sacrifice — arise 
A Martyr to the glorious cause. I open 
The gates of Heaven before thy mounting soul. 

MARK. 

Devil! no man of God ! unmeasured liar! 

My soul is sick at thee. Thou hold the keys 

Of Heaven, thou bloody wretch forsworn ? thou worse. 

If worse can be, than mine own perjured self, 

I spurn thee, curse thee, execrate thy faith 

And thee! 

ANGELO. 

Die, then! die lost, accurst for ever! 
Go with thy leprous soul unwash'd to Hell, 
To see what hideous torments wait on perjury. 

MARK. 

Avaunt. 

ANGELO. 

Weak boy and thankless, whom I've WTOUght 
To be a sharer in this great design ; 
Were thine head crown'd, thy body rough with scars 
Won in the service of the Church, the joy 
And pride of nations waiting on thy footsteps, 
I 'd trample on thy corpse with merciless heel, 
If o'er it lay my way to lift the throne 
Of Peter o'er the carnal Lords of earth. 

MAGDALENE. 

Oh! save him — save him! I have heard thee speak 

In language that might melt the stoniest hearts; 

I 've heard thee pray with such soul-kindling warmth 

Beside the bed of our departed Mother, 

That iron bonds had burst like flax before thee. 

ANGELO. 

It stands not in my power ; but oh ! rash youth. 
Go not a rebel to the Church, to meet 
The Church's Lord : — kneel, I entreat thee, kneel ; 
Let me not say I 've slain thy soul ; confess. 
Repent, and be absolved. 

MARK. 

Avaunt! — away ! — 
Wash thine own soul from thine own sins ! kneel thou. 
Howl tor thy crimes, thy treasons, and thy murders ! 
And, if Christ give me power to pardon thee, 
'Twill more avail thee in thy hour of need 
Than all thy formal conjuring absolutions. 
With her — with her — the gracious, good, and chaste, 
I '11 take my everlasting portion ; trust 
Even where she trusts; go where she goes Oh! no, 



My perjuries! my murders! when my soul 

Would rise to track the starlight path of hers. 

They '11 hiss me, howl me down, down down to 

blackness. 
To horror, now the element of my soul. 

ANGELO. 

The bell ! It sounds for thee, it summons thee, 
I hear the trampling feet down the long galleries; 
The grating bolts fall back: kneel, kneel — the Church 
Will pardon thy wild words — be reconciled. 

MARK. 

Off! — I will have no share or portion with you. 

Think you your crimes and murders, ye, no Priests 

Of the great God of Truth and Holiness, 

Will not out-preach you from the face of earth : 

This air at length shall purify itself 

From your curst doctrines. 

ANGELO. 

Saints and holy Angels, 
Hear not his blasphemies ! but thee, my daughter. 
Will I bestow among some holy Sisters. 

MAGDALENE. 

With thee, my Brother's Murderer? thee, whose guile 

Has tainted his immortal soul with sin ! 

Sir, I 'm a weak and foolish maid ; I know not 

The nice distinction of your rival creeds ; 

But this I know — 't is not the faith of Christ, 

Of Christ the merciful, the sinless Christ, 

To guile an innocent youth to such a sin. 

And make a murderer of a heart had paused 

To take the meanest insect's life. Oh ! Brother, 

Dear Brother, I will die with thee ; they '11 leave 

A corner in thy narrow bed where I 

May creep and hide my weary head. 

ANGELO. 

Be wise. 

MAGDALENE. 

No — if I may not die, I '11 starve — I '11 beg — 
I '11 serve the basest and most loathsome office. 
Ere owe my pittance to my Brother's murderer. 

ANGELO. 

They 're here — they are at the door. 

MAGDALENE. 

Ah!— 

MARK. 

Peace, my Sister! 
Look you, I 'm calm. I 've hope — but not of life. 
I '11 tell thee— hark! I will go forth— I '11 stand 
Before the public eye — and then and there 
I will undo the deadly crime I 've done; 
Unswear what I have sworn, with such strange oaths 
That they perforce shall cancel their rash doom. 
And she shall live, and not quite curse my memory. 
Though their drums roll, and trumpets blare, I '11 

shriek 
The audible truth — and I '11 lay me down 
And take my quiet death — my quivering tongue 
Still murmuring of her slander'd innocence. 
And God shall give me grace not to denounce thee; 
Thou shalt live on, and eat thy heart to see 
Thy frustrate malice. Live, and still behold 
Man after man, and kingdom after kingdom, 

3G2 



ANNE BOLEYN. 



353 



Fall from the faith that perjures— murders ! Hark ! 
They 're here— oh, Magdalene !— Farewell. 

MAGDALENE. 

Not yet, 
I '11 not part yet; there 's none to pray for thee 
But I ; there 's none to wind thy corpse — to weep, 
To die upon it. 

MARK. 

Call on Christ, my Sister, 
On Christ alone ; cry loudly, fervently. 
They 're here — come, come. 

MAGDALENE. 

Go on, I 'II follow thee, 
Even to the brink, into the grave : go on ; 
Till I am pluck'd perforce from thee, I '11 follow. 

ANGELO (alone). 
Oh ! thou that thrice deniedst the Lord of Life, 
Yet wen the Rock on which th' Eternal Church 
Was built, thou know'st, O Peter ! that in zeal 
For thy soul-saving throne, against my nature, 
I 've cast away this life. Oh ! if thy servant 
Have aught deserved by this self-sacrifice. 
Thou with thy powerful intercession stand 
Between his soul and endless burnings. Grant 
The Masses I will pay, while life is mine, 
May slake full .soon the Purgatorial fires. 
And gales of Paradise come breathing o'er 
His rescued spirit! 

So on to death, poor youth, 
Not unabandon'd, not unwept by him 
Whose aid thou scomest now ; but thou shalt own 
There, where all motives and all hearts are known. 

A Chamber in the Tower. 

QUEEN. 

O Heaven ! will they keep up this heavy din 

For ever, mocking me with hope, that now 

For me they 're knolling — roll on roil, and clash 

On clash I — Oh ! music most unmusical ! 

That never soundest but when graves are open, 

And widows' hearts are breaking, and pale orphans 

Wringing iheir hands above a silent bier — 

Four knells have rung, four now are dust, thou only 

Remain'sl, my Brolherl thou art kneeling now, 

Bare thy majestic neck A pause — more long 

Than wonted ; hath the mercy of the King — 
The justice rather? — shalt thou rush again 
To our poor Mother's arms, and tell her yet 

She 's not all childless ? Still no sound ! — alas ! 

It may be that the rapture of deep pity, 
And admiration of his noble bearing, 
Suspends all hands at their blood-reeking work, 
And casts a spell of silence o'er all sound. — 
Ha! thou low-rolling doubling drum — I hear thee! 
Stern bell, that summon'st to no earthly temple ! 
Thou 'rt now a worshipper in Heaven, ray brother, 
And thy poetic spirit ranges free 
Worlds after worlds, confest th' immortal kindred 
Of the blest angels — for thy heaven-caught fire. 
Still like that fire sprang upward, and made pure 
Th' infected air of this world as it pass'd. 



My child — my mother — they 've forbidden me 
To see once more on earth your dear loved faces ; 
There 's mercy in their harshness— here 's no place 
To entertain the future Queen of England, 
And God hath given me courage to keep down 
The mother in my heart ; thou too, my parent. 
What hadst thou done but torn my heart asunder, 
And all distracted my calm thoughts of Heaven? 

Enter Sir William Kingston. 

aUEEN. 

Now all is o'er with those brave gentlemen — 
They died, I know, Sir, as they lived, right nobly. 

KINGSTON. 

They gave their souls to their Redeemer, Lady, 
With protestations of your Highness' innocence, 
'T was their sole care and thought in death ; they 

dared 
Heaven's utmost vengeance if they falsely swore. 

aUEEN. 

And that false youth, clear'd he our honour ? 

KINGSTON. 

Loud 
He shriek'd and struggled, not with fear of death, 
But with the burthen of some painful secret 
He would unfold— the rapid executioner 
Cut short his wailing. 

aUEEN. 

Most unrighteous speed ! 

KINGSTON. 

Your Majesty 's prepared ? 

QUEEN. 

Oh ! pomp of phrase, 
To tell a sinner to prepare for judgment ; 
And yet, I think, Christ Jesus, through thy blood, 
I 'm but about to change an earthly crown 
For one that 's amaranth. 

There is no end 
Of the unexhausted bounties of the King : 
He made me first the Marchioness of Pembroke, 
Duchess of Dorset, then his sceptred Queen ; 
And now a new advancement he prepares me. 
One of Heaven's angels. — 

Is it true. Sir William, 
You 've brought from Calais a most dextrous craftsman 
In th' art of death ? — here 's much ado, good truth. 
To smite asund«r such a neck as this, 
My own slight hands grasp easily. 

Ye weep 
To see me smile— I smile to see you weep. 
I have no tears : I have been reading o'er 
His agony that sufTer'd on the cross 
For such poor sinners as myself, and there 
Mine eyes spent all their moisture. 

KINGSTON. 

We rejoice 
To see your Highness meet your doom thus calmly. 

QUEEN. 

I am to die— what's that? — why, thou and I 
And all of us die every night; and duly 
Mom to our spirits' resurrection comes 

3C3 



354 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



With rosy light, fresh flowers, and birds' sweet an- 
thems ; 
But when our grave 's our bed, that instant comes 
A morning, not of this world's treacherous light, 
But fresh with palms, and musical with angels. 
Oh! but a cruel, shameful, public death — 
There's no disease will let the spirit loose 
With less keen anguish than the sudden axe ! 
And for the shame — the sense of that 's within! 
I 've thoughts brook no communion or with that 
Or fear. My death the Lord may make a way 
T' advance his gracious purpose to this land : 
There '11 be, will see a delicate timid woman 
Lay down her cheerful head upon the block 
As on a silken pillow ; when they know 
'Twas Christ that even at that dread hour rebuked 
Weak Nature's fears, returning home, they '11 kneel 
And seek that power that turns our death to triumph. — 
Sir, are you ready ? — they '11 allow me time 
To pray even there. — Go forward. Sir, we '11 follow. 



The Scaffold. 

QUEEN. 

My fellow subjects, I am here to die ! 
The law hath judged me — to the law I bow. 
He that doth know all hearts, before whose throne. 
Ere ye have reach'd your homes, I shall stand trem- 
bling — 
God knows — I 've lived as pure and chaste as snow 
New fallen from heaven ; yet do not ye, my friends, 
Presumptuous judge anew my dangerous cause, 
Lest ye blaspheme against the wonted goodness 
Of the King's Grace — most merciful and gentle 
I 've ever known him, and if e'er betray 'd 
From his kind nature, by most cogent reasons. 
Adore the hidden secrets of his justice 
As ye would Heaven's. Beseech you, my good friends, 
If in my plenitude of power I 've done 
Not all the good I might, ye pardon me : — 
If there be here to whom I 've spoken harshly 



Or proudly, humbly I entreat forgiveness. 
— No, Sir, I '11 wear no bandage o'er mine eyes. 
For they can look on death, and will not shrink. 
Beseech you. Sirs, with modesty unrobe me. 
And let my women have the decent charge 
Of my poor body. 

Now, God bless the King, 
And make his Gospel shine throughout the land! 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 
From the Carthusian's decimated house. 
The execution of the Prior and several of the 
Brethren of the Carthusian Monastery for denying the 
King's Supremacy, was amongst the most barbarous 
transactions of this period, the chief guilt of which 
must be attributed to the unrelenting disposition of 
the King. 

Note 2. 

In that proud Prelate's heart a noble chord 
I touch'd, now harp we on a baser string. 

AH writers agree in the unprincipled and unnatural 
character of the Countess of Rochford, who suffered 
at a subsequent period for being accessary to the 
criminal conduct of Queen Catharine Howard. 

Note 3. 
Shall I find justice. Sir 7 
The singular conduct and language of Anne when 
she was arrested is strictly historical. See Burnet's 
History of the Reformalion. 

Note 4. 
The Letter. 
This is little more than a versification of the cele- 
brated letter ; the authenticity of which Mr. Ellis ap- 
pears to have established. 

364 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



Ktit JHavtsr of ^ntCoctv; 

A DRAMATIC POEM. 



INTRODUCTION. 



CHARACTERS. 



This poem is founded on the following part of the 
History of Saint Margaret. She was the daughter 
of a heathen priest, and beloved by Olybius, the Pre- 
fect of the East, who wished to marry her. The rest 
of the legend I have thought myself at liberty to dis- 
card, and to fill up the outline as my own imagination 
suggested. Gibbon has so well condensed all the in- 
formation which remains to us from Strabo, Chr}'sos- 
tom, Sozomen, and the writings of Julian the Apostate, 
relative to Antioch, the Temple and sacred grove of 
Daphne, that the reader will be able to comprehend 
from his florid, and too glowing description, most of 
the allusions to these subjects contained in the poem. 
The passage occurs in his twenty-third chapter. 

The martyrologists have dwelt almost exclusively 
on the outward and bodily sufferings of the early 
Christians. They have described with almost ana- 
tomical precision the various methods of torture. The 
consequence has been, the neglect of their writings; 
in perusing which a mind of the least sensibility 
shrinks with such loathing and abhorrence from the 
tedious detail of suffering, as to become insensible to 
the calm resignation, the simple devotion, the exult- 
ing hope of the sufferer. But these writers have 
rarely and briefly noticed the internal and mental 
agonies to which the same circumstances inevitably 
exposed the converts. The surrender of life, when 
it appeared most highly gifted with the blessings of 
Providence; the literal abandonment of this world, 
when all its pleasures, its riches, and its glories were 
in their power; the violent severing of those ties, 
which the gentle spirit of Christianity had the more 
endeared ; the self-denial, not of the ungodly lusts, 
but of the most innocent affections ; that last and most 
awful conflict, when " brother delivered brother unto 
death, and the father the child," when " a man's foes 
were those of his own household," — it was from such 
trials, not those of the fire and the stake alone, that 
the meek religion of Christ came forth triumphant. 
In such a situation it has been my object to represent 
the mind of a young and tender female ; and I have 
opposed to Christianity the most beautiful and the 
most natural of Heathen superstitions — the worship 
of the Sun. The reader, it is to be hoped, will re- 
collect that although the following poem is in most 
part a work of imagination, there were multitudes 
who really laid down their lives for the faith of Christ, 
under circumstances equally appalling and afflictive; 
for that faith, to the truth or falsehood of which they 
had demonstrative evidence in their power and in 
their possession, 

30* 2U 



Olybius, Prefect of the East. 

Vopiscus. 

Macer, Governor of the City. 

Calli.\s, Priest of Apollo. 



Fabius, Bishop of Antioch. 

DiODOTUS, 1 

Charinus, > Christians. 
Calanthias, ) 



Officers. 
Citizens. 
Christians. 
A Shepherd. 

Margarita, daughter of Catlias. 
Maidens of Antioch. 

SCENE.— Antioch in the reign of the Emperor Prohus. 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



SCENE, 

The Front of the Temple of Apollo, in the Daphne 
near Antioch. 

Oi.YBius, Macer, Romans, Citizens of Antioch, Cal- 
lias, Priests. 

CHORUS OF YOtrrHS. 

Lord of the golden day! 

That hold'st thy fiery way, 
Out-dazzling from the heavens each waning star; 

What time Aurora fair 

With loose dew-dropping hair. 
And the swift Hours have yoked thy radiant car, 

Thou mountest Heaven's blue steep. 

And the universal sleep 
From the wide world withdraws its misty veil ; 

The silent cities wake, 

Th' encamped armies shake 
Their unfurl'd banners in the freshening gale. 

The basking earth displays 

Her green breast in the blaze ; 
And all the Gods upon Olympus' head, 

In haughty joy behold 

The trampling coursers bold 
Obey thy sovereign reign with stately tread. 

365 



356 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CHORUS OF MAIDENS. 

Lord of the speaking lyre ! 

That with a touch of fire 
Strikest music, which delays the charmed spheres ; 

And with a soft control 

Dost steal away the soul, 
And draw from melting eyes delicious tears — 

Thou the dead hero's name 

Dost sanctify to fame, 
Embalm'd in rich and ever-fragrant verse ; 

In every sunlit clime, 

Through all eternal time 
Assenting lands his deathless deeds rehearse. 

The lovesick damsel, laid 

Beneath the myrtle shade, 
Drinks from thy cup of song with raptured ear, 

And, dead to all around. 

Save the sweet bliss of sound. 
Sits heedless that her soul's beloved is near 

CHORUS OF YOUTHS. 

Lord of the unerring bow, 

Whose fateful arrows go 
Like shafts of lightning from the quivering string : 

Pierced through each scaly fold. 

Enormous Python roll'd, 
While thou triumphant to the sky didst spring ; 

And scorn and beauteous ire 

Steep'd with ennobling fire 
Thy quivering lip and all thy beardless face ; 

Loose flew thy clustering hair, 

While thou the trackless air 
Didst walk in all thine own celestial grace. 

CHORUS OF MAIDENS. 

Lord of the holy spring, 

Where the Nine Sisters sing, 
Their dearest haunt, our Syrian Castaly, 

There oft the entranced maid, 

By the cool waters laid. 
Feels all her labouring bosom full of thee : 

The kings of earth stand near 

In pale religious fear ; 
The purple Sovereign of imperial Rome 

In solemn awe hath heard 

The wild prophetic word. 
That spake the cloud-wrapt mystery of his doom. 

CHORUS OF YOUTHS. 

Lord of the gorgeous shrine. 

Where to thy form divine 
The snow-while line of lessening pillars leads . 

And all the frontispiece, 

And every sculptured frieze. 
Is rich and breathing with thy godlike deeds. 

Here by the lulling deep 
Thy mother seems to sleep 
On the wild margin of the floating isle ; 
Her new-born infants, thou, 



And she the wood-Nymph now. 
Lie slumbering on her breast, and slumbering smile. ' 

Here in her pride we see 

The impious Niobe, 
'Mid all her boasted race in slaughter piled, 

Folding in vain her vest, 

And cowering with fond breast 
Over her last, her youngest, loveliest child. 

CHORUS OF MAIDENS. 

Lord of the cypress grove, 

That here in baffled love 
The soft Thessalian maid didst still pursue ; 

Until her snowy foot 

In the green earth took root. 
And in thine arms a verdant laurel grew. 

.And still thy tenderest beams 

Over our falling streams 
At shadowy eve delight to hover long ; 

They to Orontes' tide 

In liquid music glide 
Through banks that blossom their sweet course along. 

And still in Daphne's bower 

Thou wanderest many an hour, 
Kissing the turf by her light footsteps trod ; 

And Nymphs at noontide deep 

Start from their dreaming sleep. 
And in his glory see the bright-hair'd God. 

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND MAIDENS. 

Phoebus Apollo, hear ! 

Great Lycian king, appear. 
Come from thy Cynthian steep, or Xanthus' shore ; 

Here to thy Syrian home 

In visible godhead come, 
.And o'er our land thy choicest influence pour. 

CALLIAS. 

Break off the hymn. And now the solemn rites 
Are duly paid ; the hundred steers have bled ; 
O'er all the Temple the rich incense curls 
In clouds of fragrance ; and the golden cups 
In generous libation have pour'd forth 
The honied wine ; and all along the shade 
Of sacretl Daphne hath your pomp been led, 
Waking the slumbering echoes from their caves. 
To multiply the adoring lo Paean 
To great Apollo. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Callias! our God, 
That yesterday on our Elean games 
Shone with a splendour, even as though a veil. 
Which to that day had dimm'd his full divinity. 
Had been rent off; our God hath centred now 
As 't were the gather'd light of many moons 
Within his orb to honour this our festival. 

MACER. 

Nor v^onder! for did ever elder Greece, 
When all her cities and her kings were met 
On the Olympic plain, or where the priestess 

366 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



357 



Sate, speaking fate, upon her Delphic tripod. 
With richer rite, or statelier ceremony, 
With nobler or more spotless hecatombs, 
Propitiate the immortal Gods ? 



Herself not costlier. 



Great Rome 



What, then, is wanting ? 



SECOND PRIEST. 

What, but the crown and palm-like grace of all, 
The sacred virgin, on whose footsteps Beauty 
Waits like a handmaid ; whose most peerless form 
Light as embodied air, and pure as ivory 
Thrice polish'd by the skilful statuary, 
Moves in the priestess' long and flowing robes, 
While our scarce-erring worship doth adore 
The servant rather than the God. 

THIRD PRIEST. 

The maid 
Whose living lyre so eloquently speaks. 
From the deserted grove the silent birds 
Hang hovering o'er her; and we human hearers 
Stand breathless as the marbles on the walls. 
That even themselves seem touch'd to listening life 
All animate with the inspiring ecstasy. 

FIRST ROMAN. 

Thou mean'st the daughter of the holy Callias ; 
I ohce beheld her, when the thronging people 
Press'd round, yet parted still to give her way. 
Even as the blue enamour'd waves, when first 
The sea-born Goddess in her rosy shell 
Sail'd the calm ocean. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Margarita, come. 
Come in thy zoneless grace, thy flowing locks 
Crown'd with the laurel of the God ; the lyre 
Accordant to thy slow and musical steps, 
As grateful 'twould return the harmony 
That from thy touch it wins. 

THIRD PRIEST. 

Come, Margarita, 
This long, this bashful, timorous delay 
Beseems thee well, and thou wilt come the lovelier, 
Even like a late long-look'd for flower in spring. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Still silent! some one of the sacred priests 
Enter, and in Apollo's name call forth 
The tardy maiden. 

CALLIAS. 

Shame upon the child, 
* That thus will make th' assembled lords of Antioch, 
And sovereign Rome's imperial Prefect, wait 
Her wayward pleasure. 

FOURTH PRIEST {relurnhig from within.) 
Callias ! 



Ha ! what now ? — 



FOURTH PRIEST. 



Callias ! 



Hath lightning smitten thee to silence ? 
Or hath some sinister and angry sign. 
The bleeding statue of the god, or birds 
Obscene within the secret sanctuary, 
Appall'd thee ? 

FOURTH PRIEST. 

In the holy place we sought her; 
Trampled in dust we found the laurel crown, 
The lyre unstrung cast down upon the pavement. 
And the dishonour'd robes of prophecy 
Scatter'd unseemly here and there — and 

CALLIAS. 

What? 

FOURTH PRIEST. 

And Margarita was not there. 

CALLIAS. 

Not there ! 
My child not there! Prefect Oly bins. 
This is thy deed — I knew that thou didst love her. 
And mine old heart was proud to see thee stand 
Before her presence, awed ; the sovereign lord 
Of Asia, Rome's renown'd and consular captain. 
Awed by my timid, blushing child ; whom now 
His Roman soul hath nobly dared to rend 
From her afflicted father. 

OLVEIUS. 

Holy Callias, 
By Mars, my god, thou wrong'st me ! 

CALLIAS. 

Oh, my Lord ! 
Tyrant, not lord! inhuman ravisher! 
Dissembling Tarquin ! — but it is no fable. 
That great Apollo once avenged his priest. 
When broke the wasting plague o'er Agamemnon, 
And all the myriad ships of Greece. 

OLYBIUS. 

Old man. 
But that thy daughter's unlbrgotten loveliness 
Hallows thy wrath 

CALLIAS. 

By Heaven! yet I'll have justice, 
If I do travel to the emperor's throne. 
I '11 raise a cry so loud, that all the palace 
In which great Cajsar dwells, the Capitol, 
And every stone within the Eternal City, 
Shall with my wrongs resound. Ah, fond old man ! 
My trembling limbs have lost their only stay. 
And that sweet voice that utter'd all my wishes, 
Reading them in my secret heart within. 
Shall never thrill again upon mine ears! 
1 may go wandering forth another (Edipus, 
But with no fond Antigone 

CITIZENS. 

Hark! hark! 
A trumpet sound ! a messenger from Rome. 

CALLIAS. 

From Rome! from Rome ! it is thy doom, destroyer! 
The sunbeams have beheld thy deed of shame, 
And have proclaim'd it; the arraigning winds 
Have blown my injuries and thy disgrace 
Over the wide face of the listening earth ; 

367 



358 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And Caesar's arm of justice is outstretch'd 
To strike and punish ! 

The above, Vopiscus. 
voriscus. 
Great Olybius, 
I am the bearer of the emperor's mandate, 
Would I might add of wonted thanks and praise. 
'Tis said that here in Antioch, the high place 
And chosen sanctuary of those Galileans, 
Who with their godless and incestuous rites 
Offend the thousand deities of Rome, 
Making them waste our mildew'd lands with dearth. 
Attaint our wholesome airs with pestilence, 
And shake th' indignant earth, even till our cities, 
With all their unwarn'd multitudes, sink down 
Into the sudden yawning chasms beneath them ; — 
'Tis said, even here Olybius hath let sleep 
The thunders of the law, which should have smitten 
With the stern frequency of angry Jove, 
When with fierce storms he darkens half the world ! 
Wherefore, instead of flying in close haunts 
And caves, and woods, the stern extermination, 
They climb our palaces, they crowd our camps. 
They cover all our wide and boundless realms; 
While the sad Priests of all our Gods do sit 
Round their cold altars and ungifted shrines. 
Waiting in vain for victim or oblation. 

OLYBIUS. 

It moves no wonder that Vopiscus comes 

To taunt with negligence Olybius' rule, 

Not ignorant that Vopiscus were well pleased 

If that this Eastern Prefecture should pass 

To abler hands, perchance his own. — To the charge. 

It is most true that I have sought to stay 

This frenzy, not with angry fire and sword, 

But with a lofty and contemptuous mercy. 

That scorn'd too much to punish. For my heart 

Was sick of seeing beardless youth and age 

Wearying the pall'd and glutted executioner; 

Exhausting all the subtlest arts of torture 

With cheerful patience : even soft maidens moving. 

With flower-crown'dlocks.and pale but smiling cheeks, 

To the consuming fire, as to their bridal. 

I saw in this wild scorn of death a grandeur 

Worthy a nobler cause; 'twas Roman virtue. 

Though not for Roman glory. But, Vopiscus, 

I am not one that wears a subject's duty 

Loose and cast off whene'er the changeful will 

Would clothe itself in sole authority. 

The edict of the Emperor is to me 

As the unrepealed word of fate. To death 

It doth devote these Christians, and to death 

My voice shall doom them. Not Vopiscus' self, 

Whom I invite to share my stern tribunal, 

But shall confess th' obedience of Olybius. 

THE PEOPLE. 

Long live the Christians' scourge ! — long live Olybius! 
Haste, drag them forth, the accursed of our gods. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

She comes — she is here — the beauteous Margarita. 

CALLIAS. 

My child ! and thou art breathing still ! — Come back 



Unto my desolate heart — thy father, child 

These choking tears! they would not flow but now. 

MARGARITA. 

Dear father ! 

CALLIAS. 

But, sweet daughter, how is this. 
Upon our solemn day of festival, 
Thus darkly clad, and on thy close-bound iocka 
Ashes, and sackcloth on thy tender limbs ! 

MARGARITA. 

I thought the rites had been o'erpass'd ere now. 
Or 

CALLIAS. 

Hath the god afflicted thee, my child ? 

MARGARITA. 

My God, indeed, afflicts me, father. 

OLYBIUS. 

Priests! 
We mourn, that we must leave th' imperfect rites. 
Deeply we mourn it, when bright Margarita 
Vouchsafes her late and much-desired presence. 
So on to-morrow for our Judgment Hall. 
Let all the fires be kindled, and bring forth 
The long disused racks, and fatal engines. 
Their rust must be wash'd off in blood. Proclaim 
That every guilty worshipper of Christ 
Be dragg'd before us. — Ha ! 

MACER. 

What frantic cry 
With insolent interruption breaks upon 
Rome's Prefect ? 

MANY VOICES. 

Lo the priestess ! Lo the priestess ! 

SECOND PRIEST. 

She hath fall'n down upon her knees ; her hair 
Is scatter'd like a cloud of gold ; her hands 
Are clasp'd across her swelling breast; her eyes 
Do hold a sad communion with the heavens, 
And her lips move, yet make no sound. 

THIRD PRIEST. 

Haste — haste— 
The laurel crown — the laurel of the God — 
She 's wrapt — possess'd ! 

MARGARITA. 

The crown — the crown of glory- 
God give me grace upon my bleeding brows 
To wear it. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

She is distracted by our gaze — 
She shrinks and trembles. Lead her in : the trance 
Will pass anon, and her unsealed lips 
Pour forth the mystic numbers, that men hear, 
And feel the inspiring deity. 

OLYBIUS. 

On — away ! 

THE PEOPLE. 

Long live the Christians' scourge!— long live Olybius! 

CHORUS AROUND THE TEMPLE. 

Phojbus Apollo, hear! 
Great Lycian king appear, 

3G8 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



359 



Come from thy Cynthian steep, or Xanthus' shore ; 

Here to thy Syrian home, 

In visible godhead come, 
And o'er our land thy choicest influence pour. 

CHORUS ROUND OLYBIUS. 

Go on thy flow'r-strewn road, 

The champion of our god, 
By Phoebus' self his chosen chief confess'd ; 

His brightest splendours bask 

Upon thy glowing casque, 
And gild the waving glories of thy crest. 



The Grove of Daphne. 
Evening. 

MARGARITA. 



My way is through the dim licentious Daphne, 
And evening darkens round my stealthful steps; 
Yet I must pause to rest my weary limbs. 

I Oh, thou polluted, yet most lovely grove ! 

^Hath the Almighty breathed o'er all thy bowers 
An everlasting spring, and paved thy walks 
With amaranthine flowers — are but the winds, 
Whose breath is gentle, suffer'd to entangle 
Their light wings, not unwilling prisoners. 
In thy thick branches, there to make sweet murmurs 
With the bees' hum, and melodies of birds, 
And all the voices of the hundred fountains, 

, That drop translucent from the mountain's side, 
And lull themselves along their level course 
To slumber with their own soft-sliding sounds ; 
And all for foul idolatry, or worse. 
To make itself a home and sanctuary ? 

I Oh, second Eden, like the first, defiled 
j With sin! even like thy human habitants, 
I Thy winds and flowers and waters have forgot 
The gracious hand that made them, ministers 
Voluptuous to man's transgressions — all, 
I Save thou, sweet nightingale ! that, like myself, 
I Pourest alone thy melancholy song 

To silence and to God not undisturb'd — 

The velvet turf gives up a quickening sound 
Of coming steps : — oh, thou that lovest the holy, 
Protect me from the sinful — from myself I 
*Twas what I fear'd — Olybius! 

Olybius, Margarita. 

OLYBIUS. 

Margarita, 
I heard but now that thou hadst wander'd hither, 
And foUow'd thee, my love. 

MARGARITA. 

My lord, mine haste 
* Brooks no delay- 

OLYBIUS. 

What sudden speed is this ? 
Behold the Sun, our God 



MARGARITA. 



Not so, my lord. 



OLYBIUS. 

What! thou 'rt become a tender worshipper 
Of yon pale crescent, that alone in heaven 
Breathes o'er the world her cold serenity. 
Trust me, my sweet, it is a barren service. 

MARGARITA. 

My lord, I do beseech you let me pass, 
I have nor time nor wish 

OLYBIUS. 

Ha, Margarita! 
At this luxurious hour, when all is mute 
But the fond lover at his mistress' ear. 
Through the dusk grove, where every conscious tree 
Bears in its bark the record of fond vows 
And amorous service 

MARGARITA. 

Hath the Prefect seen 
Aught loose in Callias' daughter, aught unholy. 
That he would breathe suspicion's tainting blight 
On the pure lily of her fame ? 

OLYBIUS. 

Ungrateful ! 
I have endured this day for thee the taunts 
Of thy distracted sire ; but will not bear 
The thought, that thou art hurrying hence to hear 
Some favour'd lover pour into thy soul 

MARGARITA. 

Olybius, thou dost not truly think it — 

I had forgot Lord Prefect, thou art tyrannous. 

That thus with harsh and most untimely violence 
Impedcst my way. 

OLYBIUS. 

Fond maiden, know'st thou not 
That I am clothed with power? my word, my sign 
May drag to death, whoe'er presumes to love 
Th' admired of great Olybius. 

MARGARITA {apart.) 

My full heart ! 
And hath it not a guilty pleasure still 
In being so fondly, though so sternly chided ? 

OLYBIUS. 

Hear me, I say, but weep not, Margarita, 
Though thy bright tears might diadem the brow 
Of Juno, when she walks th' Olympian clouds. 
My pearl ! my pride ! thou know'st my soul is thine— 
Thine only! On the Parthians' fiery sands 
I look'd upon the blazing noontide sun, 
And thought how lovely thou before his shrine 
Wast standing with thy laurel-crowned locks. 
And when my high triumphal chariot toil'd 
Through Antioch's crowded streets, when every hand 
Rain'd garlands, every voice dwell on my name, 
My discontented spirit panted still 
For thy long-silent lyre. 

MARGARITA. 

Oh ! let me onward. 
Nor hold me thus, nor speak thus fondly to me. 

OLYBIUS. 

Thou strivest still to leave me ; go then, go. 
My soul disdains to force what it would win 
With the soft violence of favour'd love. 
But ah ! to-day — to-day — what meant thine absence 

3G9 



360 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



From the proud worship of thy God ? what mean 
Thy wild and mournful looks, thy bursting eyes 
So full of lears, that weep not? — Margarita, 
Thou wilt not speak — farewell, then, and forgive 
That I have dared mistrust thee : — No, even now, 
Even thus I '11 not believe but thou art pure 
As the first dew that Dian's early foot 
Treads in her deepest, holiest shade. — Farewell ! 

MARGARITA. 

I should have told him all, yet dared not tell him— 

I could not deeper wound his generous heart 

Than it endures already. My Redeemer, 

If weakly thus before the face of man 

I have trembled to confess thee, yet, O Lord, 

Beliire thine angels do not thou deny me ! 

And yet, he is not guilty yet, O Saviour, 

Of Christian blood ! Preserve him in thy mercy 

Preserve him from that sin. — Ah, lingering still. 

While lives of thousands hang upon my speed, — 

Away ! 



Tke Burial Place of the Christians. 

Night. 

Fabius, Diodotus, Charinus, Calanthias, etc. 

FUNERAL ANTHEM. 

Brother, thou hast gone before us, and thy saintly soul 

is flown 
Where tears are wiped from every eye, and sorrow is 

unknown ; 
From the burthen of the flesh, and from care and fear 

released. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 

weary are at rest. 

The toilsome way thou 'st travell'd o'er, and borne the 

heavy load, 
But Christ hath taught thy languid feet to reach his 

blest abode. 
Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus upon his father's 

breast. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 

weary are at rest. 

Sin can never taint thee now, nor doubt thy faith 

assail, 
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit 

fail. 
And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, whom on 

earth thou lovedst best. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 

weary are at rest. 

" Earth to earth," and "dust to dust," the solemn priest 

hath said, 
So we lay the turf above thee now, and we seal thy 

narrow bed : 
But thy spirit, brother, soars avvay among the faithful 

blest. 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 

weary are at rest. 



And when the Lord shall summon us, whom thou hast 

left behind. 
May we, untainted by the world, as sure a welcome 

find; 
May each, like thee, depart in peace, to be a glorious 

guest, 
Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 

weary are at rest. 

FABIUS. 

So by the side of martyr'd Babylas, 

Brother, thou slumberest ; silent as yon stars. 

And silent as the falling dews around thee, 

We leave thy verdant grave. But oh ! shall we, 

When we put off the load of mortal life. 

Depart like thee as in a deeper sleep. 

With the sweet smile of life on the closed lips, 

Or in an agony of mortal pain, 

By the pitch'd stake, or den of raging lions ? 

Tke above, Margarita. 

MARGARITA. 

I 'm here at last before them, and ye live. 

FABIUS. 

What means the gentle Neophite ? 

MARGARITA. 

Good sir. 

Thou hast not heard Hark — hark ! they are be* 

hind me. 

FABIUS. 

Who, maiden, who ? 

MARGARITA. 

The Prefect's ruthless soldiers ; 
They come to drag us to their Judgment Hall. 
Already is the scourge prepared; the dungeons 
Ope their expecting gates ; the outpour'd city 
Pants for the spectacle. 

FABIUS. 

Is it so, my child ? 
Makes the fierce Heathen bloody preparation 
For slaughter ? — then must we for death. His zeal 
Doth furbish up his armoury of murder; 
We, ours of patience. We must gird around us 
Heaven's panoply of faith and constancy. 
And so go forth to war. 

MARGARITA. 

Alas! alas! 
If they should take thee — thee, upon whose lips 
The living fire of inspiration burns. 
Severing by gentle force the willing spirit 
From this low earth, and pluming it for heaven; 
That makes the conscious immortality 
Stir in our souls, and pant for that pure life 
With Christ beyond the grave. Oh, thou that teachest 
Our charities to flow in heaven's own light. 
Like some bright river in the desert sands. 
Round which the gladdening pilgrims sing for joy ; 
That send'st us forth to pour sweet oil and wine 
Into the bleeding wounds ; to take our seat 
By Ihe sick couch ; to shed a tender health 
On the pale prisoner's cheek — Oh, who shall lead 
The fold less sheep to life's eternal pastures 
When their good shepherd 's gone ? 

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361 



Hast thou forgot 



The Master of the flock ? 



MARGARITA. 

Oh, no — no — no — 
But how shall I endure to see thy head, 
Thy venerable head, bow'd down to scorn ? 
I have call'd thee father, and have fondly pray'd 
That mine own parent were like thee ; and now 
I must behold thy blood flow drop by drop 
Beneath the knotted scourge, or hungry fires 
Preying upon thy shuddering flesh. 

FABIOS. 

My child, 
Think thou each lash that rends my bleeding skin 
A beauteous sign of brotherhood with Christ ; 
That the pale fire which wastes my perishing flesh 
Is heaven's own lambent glory gathering round me. 

CHARI\US. 

Why now, most holy Fabius, I had look'd 
For Joy and triumph on thy brow, to hear 
That we may mount the everlasting heavens 
In those angelic chariots, wont to wrap 
The Martyr's spirit. Lo ! the eternal gates 
Lift up their heads to greet us ! Shall we then 
Waver and pause ? or shall we not go forth 
Through all the city to the Roman's throne 
Hymning our Christ, and calling on our heads 
The glorifying axe ? 

'^ CALANTHIAS. 

Away! I see 
'The waving of the purple robe. The Lord 
Shall tread even now the wine-press in his wrath ; 
The signs are labouring forth, the latter days 
Run to their dregs. He comes t' avenge his own. 
No more, no more, your vain and baffled songs, 
" Holy and True, how long ?" ascend to heaven — 
The day of vintage, and the day of dread, 
The day of desolation is at hand, 
The day of vengeance! 

FABIUS. 

Cease, Calanthias, cease; 
And thou, Charinus. Oh, my brethren, God 
Will summon those whom he hath chosen, to sit 
In garments dyed with their own blood around 
The Lamb in Heaven ; but it becomes not man 
To affect with haughty and aspiring violence 
' The loftiest thrones, ambitious for his own, 
' -And not his Master's glory. Every star 
I Is not a sun, nor every Christian soul 
i-Rapt to a seraph. But for thee, Calanthias, 

Thou know'st not whether even this night shall burst 
j The impatient vengeance of the Lord, or rest 
Myriads of human years. For what are they, 
I What are our ages, but a few brief waves 
] From the vast ocean of eternity, 
.That break upon the shore of this our world, 
And so ebb back into the immense profound. 
Which He on high, even at one instant, sweeps 
^ith his omniscient sight? 

Beloved brethren, 
And ye, our sisters, hold we all prepared, 



Like him beside whose hallow'd grave we stand, 
To give the last and awful testimony 
To Christ our Lord. Yet tempt not to our murder 
The yet unbloody hands of men. 

They come: 
Pale lights are gleaming through the dusky night. 
And hurrying feet are trampling to and fro. 
Disperse — disperse, my brethren, to your homes! — 
Sweet Margarita, in the Hermitage 
By clear Orontes, where so oft we 've met, 
Thou 'It find me still. God's blessing wait on ail! 
Farewell ! we meet, if not on earth, in heaven. 



The Front of the Temple. 
Day-hreak. 



MARGARITA. 

Yet once again I touch thy golden strings. 

My silent and forgotten lyre, oh ! erst 

The joy of .Antioch, when on festal days 

At the proud idol's foot I sate ; and all, 

Even as thy raptures rose and fell, bow'd down 

Or stood erect before the shrine. I, too, 

Like thee, was hallow'd to an impious service, 

Even till a touch from heaven waked my soul's music. 

And pour'd it forth in ecstasy to him 

Who died for men. And shall not thou, my partner 

In mine unholy worship, mingle now 

Thy sweetness with my purer vows. Oh! fountain 

Of sounds delicious, shall I not unseal thee. 

Thou that didst flow through Daphne's flowery grove, 

Timing the dancing steps of youths and maids? 

Dwell not within thy secret wreathed shell 

Sounds, full of chaste and holy melancholy, 

As ever mourn'd in angels' moonlight chants 

O'er the night-visited graves of buried saints — 

Even sounds accordant to the weary steps 

Of him, that, loaded with the ponderous cross 

Toil'd up the steep of Calvary ? 

Callias, Margarita. 

CALLIAS. 

My child, 
My own, my loved, my beauteous child ! once more 
Thou art thyself; thy snowy hands are trembling 
On thy loved lyre, and doubtless thou art hailing 
Our God, who from his golden eastern chamber 
Begins to dawn. I have commanded all 
The ministering priests and sacred virgins 
Their robes and verdant chaplets to prepare. 
Thou too shah come, with all thy richest songs 
To hymn the triumph of our God around 
The pile whereon these frantic Galileans 
Writhe and expire. 

MARGARITA. 

My father ! 

CALLIAS. 

What is this ? 
Wilt thou not go ? 

MARGARITA. 

Alas ! I shall be there 
Too surely. 

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CALLIAS. 

Ay, and when thy ivory brows 
Are dimly shaded by the laurel crown ; 
And when thy snowy robes in folds of light 
Enwrap thee, like the glittering ocean foam 
In which the sea-nymph bowers her gliding form ; 
The God shall make thy breast his shrine, and pour 
Such all-enchanting harmony around thee. 
Men's senses, spell-bound by their captive hearing, 
Shall own the manifest godhead, and bow down 
In worship. 

MARGARITA. 

Ah, that thou and all might know 
The God that hath possess'd me — would adore 
The eternal words of light and life and truth 
That I could utter! 

CALLIAS. 

O my child ! my pride ! 
While the infected daughters of the land 
Fall off to this new faith ; while they are led 
To expiate in the fire their sinful deeds. 
How shall I gaze on thee, through Daphne gliding 
Amid thy white-robed choir of sacred maids, 
Like the presiding swan on smooth Cayster, 
And bless Apollo, that hath stamp'd thy soul 
His own. 

MARGARITA (apart.) 
Ah me ! and how t' unbarb the dart, 
Which I must strike into his inmost soul .' 

CALLIAS. 

Thrice-dearest of our god ! 

MARGARITA. 

Beloved father ! 
Those tender maids led forth to sacrifice, 
To bear upon their blushing, delicate limbs 
Rude stripes and shameful insults, have they not 
Fond parents, loving as thyself, whose hearts 
V/eep blood, more fast than even their flowing wounds? 
Oh think on her, thy Margarita, her — 
The breathing image thou hast often call'd her 
Of thy youth's bride — exposed to pain, to death ! 
To worse — to nameless shame ! 

CALLIAS. 

When Margarita 
Hath from her God revolted, I '11 endure 
Even that, or more. 

MARGARITA. 

No, father, no, thou couldst not. 
Thou wilt not, when she meets her Christian brethren, 
Patient to bear their Master's mournful lot 
Of suffering and of death 

CALLIAS. 

How? what! mine ears 
Ring with a wild confusion of strange sounds 
That have no meaning. Thou 'rt not wont to mock 
Thine aged father, but I think that now 
Thou dost, my child. 

MARGARITA. ' 

By Jesus Christ — by him 
In whom my soul hath hope of immortality, 
Father ! I mock not. 



CALLIAS. 

Lightnings blast — not thee, 
But those that by their subtle incantations 
Have wrought upon thy innocent soul ! 

Look there ! — 

MARGARITA. 

Father, I '11 follow thee where'er thou wilt: 
Thou dost not mean this cruel violence 
With which thou dragg'st me on. 

CALLIAS. 

Dost not behold him, 
Thy God! thy father's God ! the God of Aniioch 
And feel'st thou not the cold and silent awe, 
That emanates from his immortal presence 
O'er all the breathless temple ? Darest thou see 
The terrible brightness of the wrath that burns 
On his arch'd brow ? Lo, how the indignation 
Swells in each strong dilated limb! his stature 
Grows loftier; and the roof, the quaking pavement, 
The shadowy pillars, all the temple feels 
The offended God! — I dare not look again, 
Darest thou ? 

MARGARITA. 

I see a silent shape of stone, 
In which the majesty of human passion 
Is to the life express'd. A noble image. 
But wrought by mortal hands, upon a model 
As mortal as themselves. 

CALLIAS. 

Ha ! look again, then. 
There in the East. Mark how the purple clouds 
Throng to pavilion him : the officious winds 
Pant forth to purify his azure path 
From night's dun vapours and fast-scattering mists. 
The glad earth wakes in adoration; all 
The voices of all animate things lift up 
Tumultuous orisons; the spacious w-orld 
Lives but in him, that is its life. But he, 
Disdainful of the universal homage. 
Holds his calm way, and vindicates for his own 
Th' illimitable heavens, in solitude 
Of peerless glory unapproachable. 
What means thy proud undazzled look, to adore 
Or mock, ungracious ? 

MARGARITA. 

On yon burning orb 
I gaze, and say, — Thou mightiest work of him 
That launch'd thee forth, a golden-crowned bride- 
groom. 
To hang thy everlasting nuptial lamp 
In the exulting heavens. In thee the light, ^ 

Creation's eldest born, was tabernacled. 
To thee was given to quicken slumbering nature, 
And lead the season's slow vicissitude 
Over the fertile breast of mother earth ; 
Till men began to stoop their grovelling prayers 
From the Almighty Sire of all to thee. 
.And I will add, — Thou universal emblem. 
Hung in the forehead of the all-seen heavens. 
Of him, that with the light of righteousness 
Dawn'd on our latter days ; the visitant day-spring 
Of the benighted world. Enduring splendour! 

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363 



Giant refresh'd ! that evermore renew'st 

Thy flaming strength ; nor ever shall thou cease 

With time coeval, even till Time itself 

Hath perish'd in eternity. Then thou 

Shalt own, from thy apparent deity 

Debased, thy mortal nature, from the sky 

Withering before the all-enlightening Lamb, 

Whose radiant throne shall quench all other fires. 

CALLIAS. 

And yet she stands unblasted ! In thy mercy 

Thou dost remember all my faithful vows, 

Hyperion ! and suspend the fiery shaft 

That quivers on thy string. Ah, not on her, 

This innocent, wreak thy fury! I will search, 

And thr)U wilt lend me light, although they shroud 

In deepest Orcus. I will pluck them forth, 

And set them up a mark for all thy wrath; 

Those that beguiled to this unholy madness 

My pure and blameless child. Shine forth, shine forth, 

Apollo, and we 'II have our full revenge ! 

MARGARITA. 

'Tis over now — and oh, I bless thee, Lord, 

For making me thus desolate below ; 

For severing one by one the ties that bind me 

To this cold world, for whither can earth's outcasts 

Fly but to heaven ? 

Yet is no way but this. 
None but to steep my father's lingering days 
In bitterness ? Thou knowest, gracious Lord 
Of mercy, how he loves me, how he loved me 
From the first moment that my eyes were open'd 
Upon the light of day and him. At least, 
If thou must smite him, smite him in thy mercy. 
He loves me as the life-blood of his heart, 
His love surpasses every love but thine. 



For thou didst die for me, oh Son of God ! 

By thee the throbbing flesh of man was worn ; 
Thy naked feet the thorns of sorrow trod. 

And tempests beat thy houseless head forlorn. 
• Thou, that wert wont to stand 
Alone, on God's right hand. 
Before the Ages were, the Eternal, eldest born. 

Thy birthright in the world was pain and grief, 

Thy love's return ingratitude and hate; 
The limbs thou healedst brought thee no relief. 
The eyes thou openedst calmly view'd thy fate: 
Thou, that wert wont to dwell 
In peace, tongue cannot tell, 
Nor heart conceive the bliss of thy celestial state. 

They dragg'd thee to the Roman's solemn Hall, 

Where the proud Judge in purple splendour sate ; 
Thou stoodst a meek and patient criminal, 
Thy doom of death from human lips to wait ; 
Whose throne shall be the world 
In final ruin hurl'd. 
With all mankind to hear their everlasting fate. 

Thou wert alone in that fierce multitude. 

When "Crucify him!" yell'd the general shout: 
31 2V 



No hand to guard thee 'mid those insults rude, 
Nor lip to bless in all that frantic rout ; 

Whose lightest whisper'd word 

The Seraphim had heard. 
And adamantine arms from all the heavens broke out. 

They bound thy temples with the twisted thorn, 
Thy bruised feet went languid on with pain ; 
The blood, from all thy flesh with scourges torn, 
Deepen'd thy robe of mockery's crimson grain ; 
Whose native vesture bright 
Was the unapproached light. 
The sandal of whose foot the rapid hurricane. 

They smote thy cheek with many a ruthless palm, 

With thecold spearthyshudderingside they pierced; 
The draught of bitterest gall was all the balm 

They gave, t' enhance thy unslaked, burning thirst: 
Thou, at whose words of peace 
Did pain and anguish cease. 
And their long buried dead their bonds of slumber 
burst. 

Low bow'd thy head convulsed, and, droop'd in death, 

Thy voice sent forth a sad and wailing cry ; 
Slow struggled from thy breast the parting breath, 
And every limb was wrung with agony. 
That head, whose veilless blaze 
Fill'd angels with amaze. 
When at that voice sprang forth the rolling suns on 
high. 

And thou wert laid within the narrow tomb. 
Thy clay-cold limbs with shrouding grave-clothes 
bound ; 
The sealed stone confirm'd thy mortal doom. 

Lone watchmen walk'd thy desert burial ground. 
Whom heaven could not contain, 
Nor th' immeasurable plain 
Of vast infinity inclose or circle round. 

For us, for us, thou didst endure the pain, 

And thy meek spirit bow'd itself to shame, 
To wash our souls from sin's infecting stain, 
T' avert the Father's wrathful vengeance flame : 
Thou, that couldst nothing win 
By saving worlds from sin. 
Nor aught of glory add to thy all-glorious name. 



TJie Prefect's Hall of Juslice. 
Olybius, Vopiscus, Macer, Priest, Romans, etc. 
Callias. 
DiODOTUS, Charinus, Calanthias, and other Chris- 
tians. 

PRIEST. 

The sacrifice hath pleased the immortal Gods. 
With willing foot the golden-horned steer 
Moved to the altar, and in proud delight 
Shook the while fillet on his brow : the blood 
Pour'd forth its purple stream profuse ; the Aruspex 
Gazed on the perfect entrails ; and the smoke 
Rose in a full unbroken cloud. Great Prefect, 
Thy deeds are holy to our Gods. 

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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



OI^YEIUS. 

The Gods, 
Whose honour we espouse, espouse our cause. 
Hear me, j'e Priests on earth, ye Gods in heaven ! 
By Vesta, and her virgin-guarded fires ; 
By Mars, the Sire and guardian God of Rome ; 
By Antioch's bright Apollo ; by the throne 
Of him whose thunder shakes the vaulted skies; 
And that dread oath I add, that binds th' immortals, 
The unblessed waters of Tartarian Styx : 
Last, by the avengers of despised vows, 
Th' inevitable serpent-hair'd Eumenides, 
Olybius swears, thus mounting on the throne 
Of justice, to exhaust heaven's wrath on all 
That have cast off their fathers' Gods for rites 
New and unholy- From my heart I blot 
Partial affection and the love of kindred ; 
Even if my father's blood flow'd in their veins, 
I would obey the Emperor, and the Gods ! 

vonscus. 
So nobly said, as nobly be it done. 

OLYBIUS. 

Lead forth the prisoners ! 

Ye of nobler birth, 
Diodotus, Charinus, and Calanthias, 
And ye, the baser and misguided multitude. 
Ye stand denounced before our solemn throne 
As guilty of that Galilean faiih, 
Whose impious and blaspheming scorn disdains 
Our fathers' Gods; ye serve not in our temples; 
Crown not our altars ; kneel not at our shrines; 
And in their stead, in loose and midnight feasts 
Ye meet, obscuring with a deeper gloom 
Of shame and horror night's chaste brow. 

DIODOTUS. 

Olybius ! 
Were these foul deeds as true as they are false, 
We might return, that we but imitate 
The Gods ye worship — ye, who deify 
Adultery, and throne incest in the skies: 
Who, not content with earth's vast scope defiled, 
Advance the majesty of human sin 
Even till it fills the empyreal heavens. Ye sit 
Avengers of impure, unhallow'd license. 
'Tis well: — why summon then your Gods to answer, 
Wrest the idle thunderbolt from amorous Jove, 
Dispeople all Olympus, — ay, draw down 
The bright-hair'd Sun from his celestial height, 
To give accompt of that most ibnd pursuit 
Through yon dim grove of cypress. 

OLYBIUS. 

Do we wonder 
That Heaven rains plagues upon the guilty earth ; 
That Pestilence is let loose, and Famine stalks 
O'er kingdoms, withering them lo barrenness ; 
That reeling cities shake, and the swoln seas 
Engulph our navies, or with sudden inroad 
Level our strong-wall'd ports I But, impious men, 
We will no longer share your doom ; nor suffer 
Th' indiscriminate vengeance from on high 
To wrap mankind in wide promiscuous ruin: 
Impatient earth shall shake you from her bosom, 



Even as a city spurns the plague-slruck man 
From her barr'd gates, leat her attainted airs 
Be loaded with his breath. 

DIODOTUS. 

Hath earth but now 
Begun to heave with fierce intestine fires. 
Or the hot South from his unwholesome wings 
Drop pestilence ? Have changeless slumbers lock'd 
Th' untempested and stagnant seas, and now 
Awake they first to whelm your fleets and shores? 
But be it so, that angry nature rages 
More frequent in her fierce distemperature. 
Upon yourselves, ye unbelieving Heathen, 
The crime recoils. The Lord of Hosts halh walk'd 
This world of man ; the One Almighty sent 
His everlasting Son to wear the flesh. 
And glorify this mortal human shape. 
And the blind eyes unclosed to see the Lord ; 
And the dumb tongues brake out in songs of praise ; 
And the deep grave cast forth its wondering dead; 
And shuddering devils murmur'd sullen homage: 
Yet him, the meek, the merciful, the just, 
Upon the Cross his rebel people hung, 
And moek'd his dying anguish. Since that hour, 
Like flames of fire his messengers have pass'd 
O'er the wide world, proclaiming him that died 
Risen from the grave, and in omnipotence 
Array'd on high ; and as your lictors wait 
Upon your earthly pomp, portentous signs 
And miracles have strew'd the way before them. 
But still the princes of the earth take counsel 
Against the Eternal. Still the Heathen rage 
In drunken fury. Therefore hath the earth 
Espoused its Maker's cause ; the heavens are full 
Of red denouncing fires ; the elements 
Take up the eternal quarrel, and arise 
To battle on God's side. The universe. 
With one wide voice of indignation, heard 
In every plague and desolating storm. 
Proclaims her deep abhorrence at your sins. 

OLYBIUS. 

Diodotus, thou once didst share our love ; 

I knew thee as a soldier, valiant; wise, 

I thought thee ; therefore once again I stoop 

To parley with thy madness. Noble warrior, 

Wouldst thou that Rome, whose Gods have raised 

her up 
To empire, boundless as the ocean-girt 
And sun-enlighien'd earth ; that by the side 
Of her victorious chariot still have toil'd. 
While there were hosts 'enslave, or realms lo conquer; 
That have attended on her ranging eagles 
Till the winds fail'd them in their trackless flight; — 
Wouldst thou, that now upon her power's meridian, 
Ungrateful she should spurn the exhausted aid 
Of her old guardian Deities, and disclaim 
Her ancient worship? Did not willing Jovo 
His delegated sceptre o'er the world 
Grant to our fathers ? Did not arm'd Gradivus 
His Thracian coursers urge before our van. 
Strewing our foes, as the wild hurricane 
The summer corn ? Where shone the arms of Rome 
That our great sire Quirinus look'd not down 

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365 



Propitious from his high Olympian seat ? 

And shall we now forsake their hallow'd fanes, 

Rich with our fathers' piety ; refuse 

The solemn hecatomb; dismiss the flamen 

From his proud office ; rend the purple robe 

Pontifical, and leave each sumptuous shrine 

A nestling-place for foul unhallow'd birds? 

DIODOTUS. 

Olybius, thou wrong'st our Roman glory. 
No fabled Thunderer, nor the fiery car 
Of Mavors, nor long-buried Romulus, 
Set up great Rome to awe the subject world : 
It was her children's valour, that dared all things, 
And what it dared, accomplish'd. Rome herself, 
Th' Almighty willing her imperial sway. 
Was her own fortune, fate, and guardian deity. 
She built the all-shadowing fiibric of her empire 
On the strong pillars of her public virtues. 
And reign'd because she was most fit to reign. 
But ours, Olybius, is no earthly kingdom. 
We offer not a sceptre, that proclaims 
Man mightier than his brethren of the dust; 
No crown that with the lofty head that wears it 
Must make its mouldering pillow in the grave. 
This earth disowns our glories : but when Rome 
Hath sepulchred the last of all her sons. 
When Desolation walks her voiceless streets, 
Ay, when this world, and all its lords and slaves. 
Are swept into the ghastly gulf of ruin ; 
High in immortal grandeur, like the stars. 
But brighter and more lasting, shall our souls 
Sit in their empyrean thrones, endiadem'd 
With amaranthine light. Such gifts our God 
Hath promised to his faithful. 

OLYBIUS. 

Bounteous God I 
That, as an earnest of your glory, leaves you 
For every spurning foot to trample on, 
To feed unstruggling the fierce beast of rapine, 
To stand with open and untented wounds 
Beneath the scorching sun ! Where sleep the bolts 
Of your Almighty, when we hale you forth 
To glut the fire, or make a spectacle 
Of your dread sufferings to the applauding people? 

DIODOTUS. 

Our God and Saviour gives us what we pray for ; 

On earth a portion of his bitter cup 

To purify the world from our gross soul, 

And disencumber us for heaven. 

CHARIXUS. 

Diodotus ! 
Why stand'st thou thus, and dalliest with this man? 
Hear me, I say, proud Pilate! on thy throne 
Of judgment we defy thee, — loose thy hell-hounds ! 

OLYBIUS. 

I'll bear no more— Away with them! — we'll glut 
Their mad desires with suffering ! 

Ha, what 's here ? 



The above. Shepherd, Guards, etc. with a veiled 
Maiden. 

OLYBIUS. 

Why drag ye forth that maid, who by her fillet 



And flowing robes would seem a virgin, chosen 
For Phoebus' service ? 

SHEPHERD. 

Hear us, great Olybius. 
There is a cave beside Orontes' stream 
Roof'd with the dropping crystal, and the ivy 
And woodbine trail their tendrils o'er its porch 
As to conceal its secret chamber. There, 
'T is said, the Naiads, after the cool disport 
In the fresh waters, carelessly recline 
Their dripping limbs upon the fragrant moss; 
And when the light wmds lift the verdant veil, 
Some have beheld the unearthly loveliness 
That slept within; and some have heard at noon 
Bewitching sounds that made the sultry air 
Delicious. We, with venturous foot profane. 
At that nymph-hallow'd hour had wander'd thither, 
When, horror-struck, we heard two murmuring voices, 
One of a man and of a maiden one. 
Pouring upon the still and shudd'ring air 
Their hymn to Christ — we seized and bore them hither. 

OLYBIUS. 

Ha! rend they then the dedicated maids 
Even from our altars! — Haste, withdraw the veil 
In which her guilty face is shrouded close — 
— Their magic mocks my sight — I seem to see 
What cannot be before me — Margarita ! 
Answer, if thou art she. 

CALLUS. 

Great Judge! great Prefect! 
It is my child — Apollo's gifted priestess! 
Within that holy and oracular cave 
Her spirit quaffs th' absorbing inspiration. 
Lo, with what cold and wandering gaze she looks 
On me, her sire — it chokes her voice — these men. 
These wicked, false, blaspheming men, have leagued 
To swear away her life. 

OLYBIUS. 

Callias, stand back. 
Speak, virgin : wherefore wert thou there, with whom ? 

CALLIAS. 

Seal, PhoBbus, seal her lips in mercy. 

OLYBIUS. 

Peace ! 

MARGARITA. 

I went to meet the minister of Christ, 
And pray 

OLYBIUS. 

Now where is he ? by all the Gods 
I'll rend asunder his white youthful limbs; 
I'll set his head, with all its golden locks. 
Upon the city gale, for each that passes 
To shed his loathsome contumely upon it— 

I'll Now by heaven, she smiles! — Apostate! 

still 
I cannot hate her. (Aparl). 

Priestess of Apollo, 
Advance, and lend thy private ear. Fond maid, 
Is't for some loved and favour'd youth ihou'rt changed ? 
Renounce thy frantic faith, and live for him ; 
For him, and not for me. 

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MARGARITA. 

Oh, generous Prefect ! 
I do beseech thee, for thy soul's sake, shed not 
The innocent blood ; for him that I have loved — 
Behold hirn. 

Guards, wilh Fabius. 

GUARD. 

The second criminal ! 

FABIUS. 

Thou'rt here before me, daughter : — may thy path 
To heaven precede me thus. 

MARGARITA. 

Amen ! Amen! 

OLYBIUS. 

He ! — he! that man with thin and hoary hair, 
Bow'd down, and feebly borne on tottering limbs ! 
Ye Gods — ye Gods, I thank you ! 

CALLIAS. 

Wizard ! Sorcerer ! 
What hast thou done to witch my child from me ? 
What potent herbs dug at the full of the moon, 
What foul Thessalian charms dost bear about thee ? 
Hast thou made league with Hecate, or wrung 
From the unwilling dead the accursed secret 
That gives thee power o'er human souls ! 

FABIUS. 

Thou 'st err'd 
Into a truth : the dead hath risen, and walk'd 
The unconscious earth ; and what he taught, I teach. 

CALLIAS. 

Away with him! — he doth confess — away! 

OLYBIUS. 

Off with him to the torturers! 

FABXUS. 

Hear me. Prefect ; 

Hear me, I charge thee by the eternal God, 

Him whom thou know'st not, yet whose name o"er- 

awes thee ; 
IVor think ye that I speak to sue for mercy 
Upon these children or myself: expend 
Your subtlest tortures, nought can ye inflict 
But what we are proud to suffer. For yourselves 
I speak, in mercy to your forfeit souls. 
God — at whose word the vast creation sprang, 
Exulting in its light and harmony, 
From the blank silence of the void abyss ; 
At whose command at once the unpeopled world 
Brake out in life, and man, the lord of all, 
Walk'd that pure Paradise, from which his sin 
Expell'd him — God, that to the elder world 
Spake with the avenging voice of rolling waters, 
When the wild deluge swept from all the earth 
The giant-born — He that in thunder-peals 
Held dreadful converse with his chosen people; 
And made the potent-teeming elements, 
And the rapt souls of Prophets, to proclaim 
His will almighty — in our latter days 
That God hath spoken by his Son. He came. 
From the dark ages of the infant world 
Foretold, — the Prophets' everlasting Burthen. 
The Virgin bare the Son, the angelic hosts 
Burst out in song — the Father from his clouds 



Declared him. To his miracles of might 

Consenting, Nature own'd her Lord. His power, 

His sorrows, all his glory, all his shame. 

His cross, his death, his broken tomb bare witness. 

And the bright clouds that wrapt him to the Sire 

Ascending. And again he comes, again ; 

But not as then, not clad in mortal flesh. 

To live the life, or die the death of man: 

Girt with his own omnipotence, his throne 

The wreck of worlds ; the glory of his presence 

Lighting infinity : He comes to assume 

Th' eternal judgment Seat. Then thou and I, 

Olybius, and thy armed satellites. 

And these my meek and lowly followers; 

Thou, that art there enthroned in purple robes, 

The thrice-triumphant Lord of all our Asia, 

And I, a nameless, weak, unknown old man, 

That stand a helpless criminal before thee. 

Shall meet once more. The earth shall cast us up, 

The winds shall waft our thin and scatter'd ashes, 

The ocean yield us up our drowned bones; 

There shall we meet before the cloudy throne — 

Before the face of him, whose awful brightness 

Shall be the sun of that dread day, in which 

Ten thousand thousands of the angelic hosts. 

And all the souls of all mankind shall bask, 

Waiting their doom eternal. Thou and I 

Shall there give in the accompt of this day's process; 

And Christ shall render each his due reward. 

Now, Sir, your sentence. 

MARGARITA. 

Merciful .Tesus ! melt 
His spirit in its hardness. 

MACER. 

By our Gods, 
The very soldiers lean their pallid cheeks 
Upon their spears; and at his every pause 
The panting of their long-suppressed breath 
Is audible. 

VOPISCUS. 

Melhinks the stern Olybius 
Is lost in mute admiring meditation. 

OLYBIUS. 

There needed not your taunt. Sir, to awake 
Olybius to his duty. 

CIIARINUS. 

They demur. 
And will defraud us of our glorious crowns. 
Must we not scoff them back into their rage? 
What. Heathens, shake ye at an old man's voice? 
What will ye when the archangel trumpet thrills 
Upon your souls ? 

FABIUS. 

Charinus, if thou lovest 
Thy soul, be silent — pride must fall : the boastful 
Denied his Lord, and thou 

CHARINUS. 

I? 

OLYBIUS. 

Drag them forth, 
Some to the dungeons, to the torturers some. 
As we give order; — and to-morrow morn. 
Whoe'er adores not at Apollo's shrine 

376 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



367 



In Daphne, him the headsman's gleaming steel, 

Or the fierce lions, or the flaming pile. 

Shall cut away, as a corrupted branch 

From flourishing Antioch. — Off with them, I say ! 

CHRISTIANS. 

Hallelujah ! Lord our God ! 
Now our earthly path is trod 
Pass'd are now our cares and fears, 
And we quit this vale of tears. 

Hallelujah! King of Kings! 
Now our spirits spread their wings, 
To the mansion of the blest, 
To thy everlasting rest. 

Hallelujah ! Lord of Lords I 
Be our last and dying words. 
Glory to our God above, 
To our murderers, peace and love. 



The. Prison. 

MARRARITA. 

I 'm safe at last : the wild and furious cries 

That drove me on are dying into silence. 

These cold and damp and gloomy prison walls 

Are my protection. And few hours ago 

My presence would have made a holiday 

In Antiooh. As I 've moved along the streets, 

I 've heard the mother chide her sportive child 

For breaking the admiring stillness round me. 

There was no work so precious or so dear 

But they deserted it to gaze on me. 

And now they bay'd at me, like angry dogs : 

And every brow was wrinkled, every hand 

Clench'd in fierce menace: from their robes they 

shook 
The dust upon me, even more loathsome scorn 
Was cast upon my path. And can it be, 
Oh Christ! that I, whose tainted hands so late 
Served at the idol's altar; on whose lips 
And lyre still ring the idol's votive hymns. 
Am chosen to bear thy cross, and wear on high 
The martyr's robes enwoven of golden light ? 
Callias, Margarita, 
margarita. 
Alas ! my father ! 

CALLIAS. 

Oh my child ! my child I 
Once more I find thee. Even the savage men. 
That stand with rods and axes round the gate. 
Had reverence for grey hairs : they let me pass. 
And with rude pity bless'd me — Thou alone 
Art cold and tearless in your father's sorrows. 

MARGARITA. 

Oh say not so! 

CALLIAS. 

And wilt thou touch me, then, 
Polluted, as thy jealous sect proclaims. 
By idols ? Oh, ye unrelenting Gods ! 
More unrelenting daughter, not content 
To make me wretched by depriving me 
Of my soul's treasure, do ye envy me 
31* 



The miserable solace of her tears 

Mingling with mine ? She quits the world, and me. 

Rejoicing 

MARGARITA. 

No! 

CALLIAS. 

And I, whose blameless pride 
Dwelt on her — even as all the lands, no more. 
The sculptor wrought his Goddess by her form. 
Her likeness was the stamp of its divinity. 
And when I walk'd in Antioch, all men hail'd 
The iatlier of the beauteous Margarita, 
And now they '11 fret me with their cold compassion 
Upon the childless, desolate 

MARGARITA. 

My father, 
I could have better borne thy wrath, thy curse. 

CALLIAS. 

Alas ! I am too wretched to feel wrath : 
There is no violence in a broken spirit. 
Well, I 've not long to live : it matters not 
Whether the old man go henceforth alone. 
And if his limbs should fail him, he may seize 
On some cold pillar, or some lintel post. 
For that support which human hands refuse him; 
Or he must hire some slave, with face and voice 
Dissonant and strange ; or 

MARGARITA. 

Gracious Lord, have mercy, 
For what to this to-morrow's scourge or stake ? 

CALLIAS. 

And he must sit the livelong day alone 
In silence, in the Temple Porch. No lyre. 
Or one by harsh and jarring fingers touch'd. 
For that which all around distill'd a calm 
More sw-eet than slumber. Unfamiliar hands 
Must strew his pillow, and his weary eyes 
By unfamiliar hands be closed at length 
For their long sleep. 

MARGARITA. 

Alas! alas! my father, 
Why do they rend me from thee, for what crime ? 
I am a Christian : will a Christian's hands 
With tardier zeal perform a daughter's duty? 
A Christian's heart with colder fondness tend 
An aged father ? What forbids me still 
To lead thy feeble steps, where the warm sun 
Quickens thy chill and languid blood ; or where 
Some shadow soothes the noontide's burning heat ; 
To watch thy wants, to steal about thy chamber 
With foot so light, as to invite the sleep 
To shed its balm upon thy lids? Dear sir. 
Our faith commands us even to love our foes — 
Can it forbid to love a father ? 

CALLIAS. 

Prove It, 
And for thy father's love forswear this faith. 

MARGARITA. 

Forswear it ? 

CALLIAS. 

Or dissemble ; any thing 
But die and leave me. 

377 



368 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



MARGARITA. 

Who disown their Lord 
On earth, will he disown in heaven. 

CALLIAS. 

Hard heart! 
Credulous of all but thy fond father's sorrows, 
Thou will believe each wild and monstrous tale 
Of this fond faith. 

MARGARITA. 

I dare not disbelieve 
What the dark grave hath cast the buried forth 
To utter : to whose visible form on earth 
After the cross expiring men have written 
Their witness in their blood. 

CALLIAS. 

Whence learnt thou this ? 
Tell me, my child ; for sorrow's weariness 
Is now so heavy on me, I can listen 
Nor rave. Come, sit we down on this coarse straw, 
Thy only couch — thine, that wert wont to lie 
On the soft plumage of the swan, that shamed not 
Thy spotless limbs — Come. 

MARGARITA. 

Dost thou not remember 
When Decius was the Emperor, how he came 
To Antioch, and when holy Babylas 
Withstood his entrance to the Christian church. 
Frantic with wrath, he bade them drag him forth 
To cruel death ? Serene the old man wiilk'd 
Tiie crowded streets ; at every pause the yell 
Of the mad people made, his voice was heard 
Blessing Cod's bounty, or imploring pardon 
Upon the barbarous hosts that smote him on. 
Then didst thou hold me up, a laughing child 
To gaze on that sad spectacle. He pass'd 
And look'd on me vv'ith such a gentle sorrow; 
The pallid patience of his brow toward me 
Seem'd softening to a smile of deepest love. 
When all around me mock'd, and howl'd, and laugh'd, 
God gave me grace to weep. In after time. 
That face would on my noontide dreams return ; 
And in the silence of the night I heard 
The murmur of that voice remote, and touch'd 
To an aerial sweetness, like soft music 
Over a tract of waters. My young soul 
Lay wrapt in wonder, how that meek old man 
Could suffer with such unrepining calmness. 
Till late I learnt the faith for which he suffer'd. 
And wonder'd then no more. Thou 'rt weeping, too — 
Oh Jesus, hast thou moved his heart ? 

CALLIAS. 

Away! 
Insatiate of thy father's misery, 
V/ouIdst have the torturers wring the few chill 

drops 
Of blood that linger in these wither'd veins ? 

MARGARITA. 

I 'd have thee with me in the changeless heavens, 
Where we should part no more ; reclined together 
Far from the violence of this wretched world ; 
Enipnradised in bliss, to which the Elysium 
Dream'd by fond poets were a barren waste. 



CALLIAS. 

Would we were there, or anywhere but here. 
Where the cold damps are oozing from the walls, 
And the thick darkness presses like a weight 
Upon the eyelids. Daughter, when thou served'st 
Thy father's Gods, thou wert not thus: the sun 
Was brightest where thou wert — beneath thy feet 
Flowers grew. Thou sat'st like some unclouded star, 
Insphered in thine own light and joy, and madest 
The world around thee beauteous ; now, cold earth 

Must be thy couch to-night, to-morrow morn 

What means that music ?— Oh, I used to love 

-Those evening harpings once, my child ! 

MARGARITA. 

I hear 
The maids; beneath the twilight they are thronging 
To Daphne, and they carol as they pass. 

CALLIAS. 

Thou canst not go. 

MARGARITA. 

Lament not that, my father. 

CALLIAS. 

Thou must breathe here the damp and stifling air. 

MARGARITA. 

Nay, listen not. 

CALLIAS. 

They call us hence. — Ah me, 
My gentle child, in vain wouUlst thou distract 
My rapt attention from each well-known note, 
Once hallow'd to mine ear by thine own voice. 
Which erst made .'\ntioch vacant, drawing after thee 
The thronging youth, which cluster'd all around thee 
Like bees around their queen, the happiest they 
That were the nearest. Oh, my child ! my child ! 
Thou canst not yet be blotted from their memory. 
And I '11 go forth, and kneel at e\ ery foot. 
To the stern Prefect show my hoary hair, 
And sue for mercy on myself, not thee. 

MARGARITA. 

Go not, my father. 

CALLIAS. 

Cling not round me thus; 
There, there, even there repose upon the straw. 

Nay, let me go, or I '11 but I 've no power : 

Thou heed'st not now my anger or my love ; 

So, so farewell, then, and our Gods or thine, 

Or all that have the power to bless, be with thee ! 

[Departs. 

EVENING SONGS OF TIIE MAIDENS 

{Heard al a distance). 
I. 
Come away, with willing feet 
Quit the close and breathless street: 
Sultry court and chamber leave, 
Come and taste the balmy eve. 
Where the grass is cool and green, 
And the verdant laurels screen 
All whose timid footsteps move 
With the quickening stealth of love ; 
Where Orontes' waters hold 
Mirrors to your locks of gold. 
And the sacred Daphne weaves. 
Canopies of trembling leaves. 

378 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



369 



11. 

Come away, the heavens above 
Just have hght enough for love ; 
And the crystal Hesperus 
Lights his dew-fed lamp for us. 
Come, the wider shades are falling. 
And the amorous birds are calling 
Each his wandering mate to rest 
In the close and downy nest 
And the snowy orange flowers. 
And the creeping jasmine bowers, 
From their swinging censers cast 
Their richest odours, and their last. 

HI. 

Come, tne busy day is o'er, 
Flying spindle gleams no more ; 
Wait not till the twilight gloom 
Darken o'er th' ernbroider'd loom. 
Leave the toilsome task undone, 
Leave the golden web unspun. 
Hark, along the humming air 
Home the laden bees repair ; 
And the bright and dashing rill 
From the side of every hill, 
With a clearer deeper sound. 
Cools the freshening air around. 

IV.* 
Come, for though our God the Sun 
Now his fiery course hath run ; 
There the western waves among 
Lingers not his glory long; 
There the couch awaits him still. 
Wrought by Jove-born Vulcan's slull 
Of the ihrice-refined gold, 
With its wings that wide unfold. 
O'er the surface of the deep 
To waft the bright-hair'd God asleep 
From the Hesperian islands blest. 
From the rich and purple West, 
To where the swarthy Indians lave 
In the farthest Eastern wave. 

V. 
There the Morn on tiptoe stands, 
Holding in her rosy hands 
All the amber-studded reins 
Of the steeds with fiery manes. 
For the sky-borne charioteer 
To start upon his new career. 



*Tliis and the following stanza are from a beautiful frag- 
ment of Rlimnernius. — Poet. Min. Gtseci. Edit. Galsford. 
Vol. i. page 423. 

'lUMoi Jzlv yrttj t\axiv jrdvov TJ/taTo irdvra' 

OiCt jtct' cifiTravGts yCv^Tm oij^tfila 
tirnot.<riv te KaL ainip, im}V ^o£oidtiTv\o% 'HtuS 

uKtaviv 7r(ioAt7rci(c' ch^-avuv tlravcSfi, 
rhv niv y&p t^l-i Kvva <^ip£t ircXvijoaTos tl^vij 

KolXnjf 'HcpaitTTOV x^polv l\i]\oiiivj\ 

yalav is AlOidirmv iva ol ^odv hpfba Kal trriroi 

lcTTdcr\ r.0p* 'liwj ?)pty8i'Eio t^'i^rj' 
I'vS' indCi) Irifuiv dxiiov 'Tirtj/lovoj fit; 



Come, for when his glories break 
Every sleeping maid must wake. 
Brief be then our stolen hour 
In the fragrant Daphne's bower ; 
Brief our twilight dance must be 
Underneath the cypress tree. 
Come away, and make no stay. 
Youth and maiden, come away. 



Night. 
A splendid, illuminated Palace. 

MARGARITA. 

Am I brought here to die ? My prison open'd 

Softly as to an angel's touch, and hither 

Was I led forth among the breathing lutes 

Of our blithe maidens, as to lure me on. 

And still where'er I move, as from the earth. 

Or floating in the calm embosoming air. 

Sweet sounds of music seem to follow me. 

I breathe as 't were an atmosphere distill'd 

From richest flowers; and, lest the unwonted light 

Offend mine eyes, so late released from gloom, 

'Tis soothed and cool'd in alabaster lamps. 

And is it thus ye would enamour me 
Of this sad world >. Your luxuries, your pomps, 
Your vaulted ceilings, that with fond delay 
Prolong the harp's expiring sweetness; walls, 
Where the bright paintings breathe cmd speak, and 

chambers 
Where all would soothe to sleep, but that to sleep 
Were to suspend the sense of their soft pleasures; 
They are wasted all on me : as though I trod 
The parching desert, still my spirit longs 
To spread its weary wings, and be at rest. 
Oh, vainly thus would ye enhance my loss. 
By gilding thus the transient life I lose ! 
VVere mine affections dead to all things earthly 
As to these idle flatteries of the sense. 
My trial were but light. 

There 's some one comes — 
Is it the ruthless executioner ? 

Olybius, Margarita. 

OLYBIUS. 

Fairest, it is 

MARGARITA. 

Lord Prefect, it becomes 
The dying Christian to be mock'd in death ; 
But it becomes not great Olybius 
To play the mocker. 

OLYBIUS. 

Mock thee ! I had rather 
Fall down and worship at thy feet. 

MARGARITA. 

My Lord, 
I said before thou dost not well to heap 
Cold insult on the head thou tramplest on. 
If that mine hour is come, command thy slaves 
To lead me forth. 

370 



370 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



OLYBIUS. 

I will — but they shall wear 
The bridal saffron ; all their locks shall bloom 
With garlands; and their blazing nuptial torches 
And hymeneal songs, prepare the way 
Before Love's blushing martyr. 

MARGAIIITA. 

Sir, go on ; 
I can endure even this. 

OLYUIUS. 

Sweet Margarita, 
Give me thine hand — for once — Oh ! snowy treasure, 
That shall be mine thus fondly clasp'd for ever. 
Now, Margarita, cast thine eyes below — 
What seest thou ? 

MARGARITA 

Here Apollo's temple rests 
Its weight upon its snow-white columns. There 
The massy shades of Daphne, with its streams. 
That with their babbling sounds allure the sight, 
Where their long dim-seen tracts of silvery whiteness 
Pvow gleam, and now are lost again. Beyond, 
The star-lit city in its wide repose ; 
Each tall and silent tower in stately darkness 
Distinct against the cloudless sky. 

OLVBIUS. 

Beneath thee, 
Now, to the left ? 

MARGARITA. 

A dim and narrow court 
I see, where shadows as of hurrj'ing men 
Pa.ss and repass ; and now and then their lights 
Wander on shapeless heaps, like funeral piles. 
And there are things of strange distorted shape, 
On which the torches cast a colder hue. 
As though on iron instruments of torture. 
A little farther, there are moving lamps 
In the black amphitheatre, that glance. 
And as they glance, each narrow aperture 
Is feebly gilded with their slanted light. 
It is the quick and busy preparation 
For the dark sacrifice of to-morrow. 

OLYJJIUS. 

There, 
If thou canst add the scorn, and shame, and pain, 
The infuriate joy of the fierce multitude, 
The flowing blood, and limbs that writhe in flame, 
Thou seest what thou prepares! for thyself. 
Now what Olybius' love prepares for thee, 
Fairest, behold ! — This high irradiate roof 
Fretted with lamps ; these gorgeous chambers, each 
As it recedes of costlier splendour, streu'd 
With all the barbarous Indian's loom hath wrought, 
Or all the enslaved ocean wafts to Tyre. 
Arabia's weeping groves are odourless. 
Her balmy wealth exhausted o'er our couches 
Of banquet, where the revelling Syria spreads 
Her fruits and wines in vases cool with snow 
From Libanus. Around are summer gardens 
Of sunny lawn and sweet secluded shade, 
Which waft into the gilded casement airs 
liOaded with dewy fragrance, and send up 



The coolness of their silver-dashing fountains. 

As nature's self strove in fond rivalry 

With art to pamper every sense. Behold 

Yon throne, whereon the Asiarch holds his state, 

Circled with kings and more than kingly Romans; 

There by his side shall Margarita sit, 

Olybius' bride ; with all the adoring city. 

And every province of the sumptuous East, 

Casting its lavish homage at her feet ; 

Her life one luxury of love, her state 

One scene of peerless pomp and pride ; her will 

The law of spacious kingdoms, and her lord 

More glorious for the beauty of his bride 

Than for three triumphs. Now, my soul's beloved! 

Make thou thy choice. 

MARGARITA. 

'T is made — the funeral pyre. 

OLYBIUS. 

Dearest, what say'st thou ? Wouldst thou have me 

woo thee 
So that the burning blushes should 

MARGARITA. 

Oh ! hear me, 
Olybius — should we look to-morrow eve 
On that sad court of death, the winds that bore 
The groans of anguish will have died in silence ; 
The untainted earth have drunk the blood, nor trace 
Remain of all those Christian multitudes. 
Save some small urns of dust. A few years pass'd, 
Could we look round where stands this spacious 

palace. 
Yon throne of gold, these high and arching roofs. 
Even on thine own majestic shape, Olybius, 
Will the disfinguish'd dust of these proud chambers. 
Or even thine own embalmed ashes, wear 
The stamp and impress of their kingly lord ? 
With the same scorn will the coarse peasant's foot 
Tread all beneath it. But the soul — the soul, 
What then will be iis separate doom ? What seats 
Of light and bliss will hold to-morrow's victims ? 
On what dark beds shall those recline, who have 

shone 
A little longer in this cloudy sphere, 
And bask'd within the blaze of human glory, 
Ere yet the eternal night hath gather'd them 
In darkness ! — Oh ! were this world all, Olybius, 
With joy would I become thy cupbearer. 
And minister the richest wine of life. 
Long as thy mortal lips could quaff of bliss. 
But now a nobler service dolh become me ; 
I '11 use thy fabling poets' phrase, and be 
Thy Hebe, with officious hand to reach thee 
The ambrosial cup of everlasting gladness. 

OLYBIUS, 

How doth the rapture of her speech enkindle 
The brightness of her beauty ! never yet 
Look'd she so lovely, when her loosen 'd locks 
Flow'd in the frantic grace of inspiration 
From the burst fillet down her snowy neck. 

MARGARITA. 

Roman, I know thy spirit pants for glory ; 
There is a thirst within thine inmost soul, 

380 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH, 



371 



Which triumphs cannot satiate, nor the sway 
Of earth. I 'H tell thee how to win a record 
That shall be register'd by flaming hands 
In the adamantine heavens. 

OLYBIUS. 

But canst thou win me 
An immortality of thee ? 

MARGARITA. 

I can. 

OLYBIUS. 

Name then the price, and be it the forfeit life 
Of the most hardy in yon Christian crew, 
'T is given. 

MARGARITA. 

I ask thine own eternal soul — 
Believe in Jesus Christ, and I am thine. 

Thou smilest on me as with a scornful pity; 

I may not scorn, but from my inmost soul 
I pity thee. These tears, these bursting tears, 
Flow but for thee, Olybius ! Little know'st thou 
What sacrifice it were t' abandon now 
The saintly quiet of the unwedded state ; 
Where all the undistracted spirit dwells 
On heaven alone ; nor love, nor hope, nor duty. 
Nor daily thought, nor nightly dream withdrawn 
From him, who is the sun to that pale flower 
The virgin's heart. Those silent stars above us 
Are not so pure, so calm, so far removed 
From earth, as maidens dedicate to Christ; 
And I would quit that cloudless course on high 
To wander in the darkling world with thee. 

OLYBIUS. 

There was a time, I will not say thy lips. 

But thy full sparlding eye spake softer language; 

Then 

MARGARITA. 

Oh ! reproach me not my days of shame. 
I will not say I loved thee not, Olybius, 
With a most fond and earthly love. In truth, 
Or ere I learnt this unimpassion'd faith. 
Thou wert my soul's idolatry — thy form 
Usurp'd Apollo's pedestal, diverting 
All to thyself, mine incense and my vows. 
Thou wert mine all on earth, nor knew I aught 
Beyond to rival thee. Olybius, gaze not 
In wonder thus ; learn thou this faith, and then 
Thy bride will bring to thee a nobler dowry 
Than her poor beauty. Thou vvouldst bless me, then. 
Nor chide me as an alien to thy love. 
Or should a darker destiny await us. 
If, ere the twilight hour that gave me to thee, 
We were led forth to die ; if funeral fires 
Were all our bridal lights, our bridal couch 
The rack, and scorn our hymeneal song. 
Thou wouldst turn to me in thine agony. 
In full and unrepining fondness turn, 
And bless me still, while thou hadst breath for blessing ! 
Nay, turn not from rae. 

OLYBIUS. 

Curse upon this faith, 
That thus hath wrung the love from thy pure soul ! 

Curse on thy 

2W 



MARGARITA. 

Ha! thou shalt not curse the Saviour. 
Alas ! and there 's no hope — he 's lost — he 's lost — 
So now farewell for ever, proud Olybius ! 
Henceforth our way along this world of woe 
Must be far separate to our separate graves. 
And separate too our everlasting dwellings — 
Though my voice fail, I 'II weep a last farewell .' 

OLYBIUS. 

Now whither goest thou ? 

MARGARITA. 

To my prison, sir. 

OLYBIUS. 

Ay, and thou shall. But hast thou thought, fond maid, 
To what my wrath may doom thee ? Will those limbs, 
Wont once to tremble at the zephyr's breath. 
That lightly disarranged thy bashful robes — 
Thou, that didst blush, like morning, when the eyes 
Of men beheld thy half veiled face — wilt thou 
Endure thy unrobed loveliness to be 
The public gaze ? 

MARGARITA. 

Will great Olybius take 
Such poor revenge ? 

OLYBIUS. 

By heaven ! but I must leave her, 
Or she will tempt me to unmanly violence. 
Or melt within me all my Roman virtue. 
By all the Gods ! I '11 find a way to tame 
This wayward fawn. — So, since thou v^ill, proud wo- 
man. 
Return to solitude and gloom, to-morrow 
Thou wakest to the bridal or to death ! 

MARGARITA. 

Fie 's gone — how suddenly I — and still I hoped, 
And surely 't was no sin to hope so fondly. 
That He, who made the proud rebellious waves 
Of the vex'd sea in smooth obedient calmness 
Sink down, might yet rebuke his haughty spirit 

Callias, Margarita. 

CALLIAS. 

Queen of the East ! thy father doth thee homage. 
The Rgypiian that quafli^'d off the liquid pearl. 
That changed her beauty's slaves but as the world 
Its lords, shall pass into the oblivious Lethe, 
And my bright daughter be henceforth the proverb 
Of loveliness 

MARGARITA. 

What mean'st thou ? 

CALLIAS. 

And Orontes 
Shall put to shame pale Cydnus, when thou sailest 
In gilded galley down the obsequious tide. 
The air all music, and the heavens all brightness ; 
And all the shores alive with Antioch's sons. 
Yea, those of utmost Asia, that shall hear 
The thought of thee, like precious merchandise. 
Back to their homes, henceforward held in honour 
For having gazed on queenly Margarita. 

MARGARITA. 

Ah ! how to check this frantic rapture ? 

3S1 



372 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CALLIAS. 



She, 



The haughty mistress of the Palmy City, 
Whom great Aurelian and the arms of Rome 
Scarce bow'd, no more shall fill Fame's brazen trump, 
That shall devote alone to Margarita 
The fulness of its sound. 

MARGARITA. 

Why so, sir ? 

CALLIAS. 

Why ? 
Doth not Olyhius, great Olybius, 
The Emperor's second self, the Lord of Asia, 
Whose triumphs gild our late degenerate days 
With splendour worthy elder Rome ; whose form 
Were fittest by imperial Juno's side 
To walk the clouds, her chosen mate ; to lacquey 
Whose royal slate barbaric monarchs vie— 
Hath he not deign'd to call thee bride! 

MARGARITA. 

My father. 
Thou know'st the way I 'm going, and canst lead m.e. 

CALLIAS. 

Whither, my child ? Are not these chambers thine. 
That with their splendour load my unwonted eyes ? 
Is not the banquet and the couch of rest 
Prepared ? 

MARGARITA. 

It is : — the prisoner's bitter bread. 
And earth-strewn couch. 

CALLIAS. 

Hath he deceived me, then ? 

MARGARITA. 

No ; thou 'st deceived thyself 

CALLIAS. 

What ! and to-morrow 
No bridal pomp, no hymenean song ! 

MARGARITA. 

Oh yes, my father, I shall wed to-morrow, 

But with no earthly bridegroom ; songs there will be. 

But of this sinful world unheard. 

CALLIAS. 

Thou mean'st not 
That thou shall die ? 

MARGARITA. 

I shall begin to live 
To-morrow — Father, I would have thee with me, 
That I may say. Adieu 

CALLIAS. 

Liars and murderers ! 
Did they not tell me, with a flattering smoothness 
Of voice, like spaniels fawning at my feet. 
That they were leading thee to be their queen, 
Olybius's bride ? And will they cast thee back 
Into the loathsome dungeon, to come forth 
And bow this neck, this soft and ivory neck. 
To the fierce headsman ? 

MARGARITA. 

It was the truth they spake. 

CALLIAS. 

Well, then I — Ah, now 't is clear — 't is age hath crazed 
me. 



And made this dim confusion in my brain, 

And hence such strange things seem to be and are 

not. 
Come, I '11 go with thee where thou wilt ; I know 
Old doting age should be obedient. Thou 
Wilt tell me what this hurrying alternation 
Of light and gloom, and palaces and prisons. 
Of nuptials and of murders, means: — in truth, 
I do begin to hope it is a dream. 
Life's dying flame, they say, like waning lamps, 
Casts oft unreal shadows, that perplex 
The parting soul — But this is certain ; yet 
I have not lost thee, for I feel thine hand 
Trembling'and warm in my cold. palm. Go on, 
But hold me thus, I '11 follow thee for ever. 



Another Chamber. 



OLVBIUS. 

Put out those dazzling lights, nor weary me 

With that incessant music. 

Cruel Fates ! 

Have ye thus pamper'd my insatiate soul, 

Preventing all my wishes by fulfilment ; 

And led me step by step unto the Capitol 

Of man's felicity, to laugh me there 

To scorn, by setting up a golden crown 

Of all my toils, that withers in my grasp? 

Th' inured to misery are inured to suflfering ; 

But he on whom Success hath ever waited, 

The thunder-bearing eagle of his war. 

In peace his busy minister of pleasure. 

To him the thought of one thing unpossess'd 

Casts back a gloomy shadow, that o'erclouds 

All his pass'd tract of glory and of bliss. 

Oh ! that the barren earth had borne to me 

But shame and sorrow's bitter fruits. 

Bull, 

That boasted in my single soul to centre 

The rigid virtues of old Rome, myself 

The nobler Seipio of a looser age. 

Ami thus sunk ? There were in elder days 

Who from the 'oottom of their hearts have pluck'd 
Rooted afl^ection, and have proudly worn 

Their lives, thus self-despoil'd of their best treasures- 
Fathers have led their gallant sons to th' axe 

Oh ! but to doom that neck, round which I thought 
Mine arms should grow, upon the block ; — that face 
Which oft my dreams presented me, composed 
In loving rest upon my slumbering bosom. 

Convulsed! The heavens and earth shall faL 

together 
Ere this shall be I— But how to save her— how— 
And must Olybius stoop to means beyond 
His own high will ? 

This pale and false Vopiscus . 
Hath from great Probus wrung his easy mandate: 
Him Asia owns her Prefect, if Olybius 

Obey not this fell edict. 1 must plunge 

The world in civil strife, uplift the banner 
Of arm'd rebellion 'gainst mine Emperor, 
The father of my fi)rlunes— trample down 

My solemn oaths sworn to th' assembled people 

382 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



373 



What then ? — howl war, and to the dust my glory. 
Shall it be so ? Who comes ? — Vopiscus ! 

Olvbius, Vopiscus, Macer, Romans. 

VOPISCUS. 

See, 
My friends, that empire's weight is no light burthen : 
The nightly sleep may seal the vulgar eye ; 
The public weal denies to great Olybius 
That base plebeian blessing. 

OLVBIUS. 

Is the night 
So nearly pass'd ? 

VOPISCUS. 

The purple dawn begins 
To tip with light the misty eastern hills. 

MACER. 

Already doth the wakeful people throng 
In gay and holiday attire ; even now 
I heard the clamour of the baser sort. 
In merry conflict, for their foremost seats 
In the Amphitheatre, and around the piles 
On which the Christians are to burn. 

VOPISCUS. 

'T is time, 
Great Prefect, that we too prepare. Olybius 
Were doubtless loth to check the people's zeal, 
That shout for death on every Christian head. 

OLYBIUS. 

When I am bow'd beneath thy rule, mine acts 
Shall render their aecompt to thee. 

MACER. 

Olybius, 
Beseech thee hear me these few words apart. 
Whom thou wouldst save, I know, nor speak of it 
But in officious love — But, on thy life, 
I pray thee. 

OLYBIUS. 

On my life ! 

MACER. 

This night I have heard 
Along the streets and in the noisy taverns. 
All Antioch, madden'd by the angry priests, 
Even thine own soldiers, swear to glut their eyes 
With the apostate maiden's blood. Shouldst thou, 
All loved, and fear'd, and honour'd as thou art. 
Outspread thy purple mantle over her, 
They'll pluck her hence, and rend her limb from 
limb. 

OLYBIUS. 

What ! dare the rabble menace him whose wrath 
The royal Parthian fled ? 

MACER. 

But yield thus far — 
iLet her be led forth with the rest; to me 

Entrust the order that she suffer last. 
• My life upon 't she yields; the soul of woman 

Fears not in thought the anguish, which, if seen, 

Appals her back into her nature's softness ; 

J'hey can defy the pain they cannot gaze on. 

OLYBIUS. 

Excellent! excellent! my noblest friend, 
To thee I trust my more than life. 



Lead on ; 
Ere one hour pass we meet before the temple. 
Away ! 

VOPISCUS. 

'Tis time. 

OLYBIUS. 

Thou, Macer, stay with me. 
To each and all, till morn hath broken, farewell! 



The Prison. 



MARGARITA. 

Oh Lord ! thou oft hast sent thy plumed angels, 

And with their silent presence they have awed 

The Heathen's violence to a placid peace. 

The ravening beasts have laid their Isiwning heads 

In love upon the lap of him, whom man 

Had cast them for their prey: and fires have burn'd, 

Unharming, like the glory of a star. 

Round the pale brows of maidens ; and the chains 

Have dropt, like wither'd flax, from galled limbs; 

And whom the infuriate people led to death, 

They have fallen down, and worshipp'd as a deity. 

But thou hast sent a kindlier boon to me, 
A soft prophetic peace, that soothes my soul, 
Like music, to an heavenly harmony. 
For in my slumoer a bright being came. 
And with faint steps my father follow'd him. 
Up through the argent fields, and there we met 
And felt the joy of tears without the pain. 

What 's here ? the bridal vestments, and the veil 
Of saffi-on, and the garland flowers. Olybius, 
Dost think to tempt me now, when all my thoughts. 
Like the soft dews of evening, are drawn up 
To heaven, but not to fall and taint themselves 
With earth again ? My inmost soul last night 
Was wrung to think of our eternal parting ; 
But now my voice may tremble, while I say, 
" God's will be done !" yet I have strength to say it. 

But thou, oh morn! the last that e'er shall dawn 
Through earthly mists on my sad eyes — Oh blue. 
And beautiful even here, and fragrant morn, 
Mother of gentle airs and blushing hues! 
That bearest, too, in thy fair hand the key 
To which the harmonious gates of Paradise 
Unfold; — bright opening of immortal day! 
That ne'er shall know a setting, but shalt shine 
Round me for ever on the crystal floors 
Where Blessed Spirits tread. My bridal morn, 
In which my soul is wedded to its Lord, 
I may not hail thee in a mourner's garb : 
Mine earthly limbs shall wear their nuptial robes. 
And my locks bloom once more with flowers that fade. 
But I must haste, I hear the trumpet's voice. 
Acclaiming thousands answer — yet I fear not. 
Oh Lord ! support mc, and I shall not fear. 
But hark! the maidens are abroad to hail 
Their Cod ; we answer through our prison grates. 
Hark! 

383 



374 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CHORUS OF HEATHEN MAIDENS. 

Now glory to the God, who breaks, 
The monarch of the realms on high ; 

And with his trampling chariot shakes 
The azure pavement of the sky. 

The steeds, for human eyes too bright, 

Before the yoke of chrysolite 

Pant, while he springs upon his way, 
The beardless youth divine, who bathes the world in 
day. 

CHORUS OF CHRISTIANS [from the prisoTi.) 
Now glory to the God, whose throne, 

Far from this world obscure and dim, 
Holds its eternal state alone 

Beyond the flight of Seraphim : 
The God, whose one omiiific word 
Yon orb of flame obedient heard. 
And from the abyss in fulness sprang. 
While all the blazing heavens with shouts of triumph 

rang. 

HEATHENS. 

Now glory to the God, that still 

Through the pale Signs his car hath roU'd, 
Nor aught but his imperious will 

E'er those rebellious steeds controH'd. 
Nor ever from the birth of time 
Ceased he from forth the Eastern clime, 
Heaven's loftiest steep, his way to make 
To where his flaming wheels the Hesperian waters 

slake. 

CHRISTIANS. 

Now glory to the God, that laid 

His mandate on yon king of day ; 
The master-call the Sun obey'd. 

And forced his headlong steeds to stay, 
To pour a long unbroken noon 
O'er the red vale of Ajalon : 
By night uncheck'd fierce Joshua's sword 
A double harvest reap'd of vengeance for the Lord. 

HEATHENS. 

Now glory to the God, whose blaze 
The scatter'd hosts of darkness fly; 

The stars before his conquering rays 
Yield the dominion of the sky ; 

Nor e'er doth ancient Night presume 

Her gloomy state to re-assume ; 

While he the wide world rules alone, 
And high o'er rnen and Gods drives on his fire-wheel'd 
throne. 

CHRISTIANS. 

Now glory to the Lord, whose Cross 
Consenting Nature shrinking saw ; 

Mourning the dark world's heavier loss. 
The conscious Sun in silent awe 

Withdrew into the depths of gloom; 

The horror of that awful doom 

Quench'd for tliree hours the noontide light, 
And wrapt the guilt-shaken earth in deep untimely 
night. 



HEATHENS. 

Now glory to the God, that wakes 
With vengeance in his fiery speed. 

To wreak his wrath impatient breaks 
On every guilty godless head ; 

Hasty he mounts his early road. 

And pours his brightest beams abroad ; 

And looks down fierce with jocund light 
To see his fane avenged, his vindicated rite. 

CHRISTIANS. 

Now glory to the Christ, whose love 
Even now prepares our seats of rest, 

And in his golden courts above 
Enrolls us 'mid his chosen Blest; 

Even now our martyr robes of light 

Are weaving of heaven's purest white ; 

And we, before thy course is done. 
Shall shine more bright than thou, oh vainly-wor- 
shipp'd Sun! 



The Front of the Temple. 

On one hand the Prefecl's Palace, on the other the 
Amphitheatre. 

Many Citizens. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

Didst e'er behold a spectacle so rich 

And sumptuous? How yon strong Centurion 

With all his band are labouring to advance 

Toward the temple ; like to rolling rivers 

The people flood around them. Lords and slaves, 

Gown'd senators, and artisans in doublets. 

Mothers with infants, and old tottering men, 

All reverence lost for state or rank or age. 

Swell the vast uproar. 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

Antioch doth not hold 
Such multitudes ; all Syria hath pour'd in, 
Choking the roads with tumult. 

THIRD CITIZEN. 

I beheld 
The Amphitheatre, its spacious circle. 
From the arena to the highest seat, 
One mass of living turbulence. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

No wonder ; 
For him who linger'd in the city all 
Assail'd as they pass'd by with imprecation, 
.'Vnd hurl'd huge stones at his devoted head. 
Deeming him guilty of this faith accursed. 

FOURTH CITIZEN. 

On every tree they hang like birds; the courts 
Around the Prefect's palace are as throng'd 
As here before the temple. But for that 
Beyond, wherein the executioners 
Stand with bare arms around their dreadful engines, 
Men struggle for the entrance as for life ; 
He that hath won it looks back on his comrade 
More proud than if he had storm'd an enemy's camp. 

381 ' 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



375 



FIRST CITIZEN. 

How noble is this rage ! Like one wild fire 
The zeal of vengeance for iheir fathers' Gods 
Wraps all these myriads. 

FOURTH CITIZEN'. 

Ay, those stormy riouds, 
To which these gather'd hosts may best be liken 'd, 
Are pregnant with the thunderbolts of heaven. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

Thought ye all Anlioch still so sound 

FOURTH CITIZEN. 

I know not ; 
But this I know, 't were ill for him who wore 
A face of sorrow in an hour like this ; 
'Twere treason 'gainst the tyrant of the day — 
The assembled people. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

Back! fall back! the Prefect! 

FOURTH CITIZEN. 

Hark, friends ! as now the brazen clarions cease, 
How sweetly shrill the silver trumpets pierce 
The eager ear. Again that general shout 
From all that vast and boundless multitude '. 
It peals up all the Amphitheatre, 
And every court takes up and multiplies 
The exulting clamour, like the thunders rolling 
Amid the rugged mountains. 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

Would not Jove 
Now almost change his high immortal state, 
Where Gods before his footstool bow, to win 
The homage round the great Olybius pour'd ? 

FOURTH CITIZEN. 

'T were worth a lile to be one hour as he is. 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

Behold ! the priests of all the temples bear 
Their Gods in state to see themselves avenged : 
As they sweep on, the reverent crowd falls back. 
Lo, first the loose-hair'd Bacchanals dance on 
In wanton Thiasus, their cymbals catch 
The radiant light, that falls in glancing flakes 
O'er their white robes, and freshening ivy wreaths. 
Lo, now the beardless youths of Dyndymene! 
Half timorous, the yoked lions drag along 
The golden car, where sits the tower-crovvn'd Queen. 
Now the Egyptian timbrels ring the praise 
Of Isis; and behind Jove's flamen walks 
In state supreme, like his own God. 

SECOiND CITIZE.N. 

Fall down, 
Yc men of Antioch ! lo, your ancient Gods ! 
Astarte, diadem'd with her crescent moon. 
And him whom by the side of Lebanon 
The maidens yearly weep, soft Thamuz. 

THIRD CITIZEN. 

See! 
The high tiara'd Magian bears his fire. 

FOURTH CITIZEN. 

Oh, proud assembly of Divinity ! 
■Lo, all the earth's conspiring Gods in league! 
The ruling powers of heaven and hell are met 
T' exterminate this all-abhorred faith. 
32 



SECOND CITIZEN. 

But think ye that Apollo's aged priest 
Will come ? 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

I have been gazing toward the vestibule 
In anxious hope to see his reverend face. 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

What, know'st thou not how yesterday 

THIRD CITIZEN. 

Peace, peace ! 
He 's here — Give place. 

The above. Callias. 

CAI.LIAS 

All true, and real all: 
My sleep is fled; but not my hideous dreams. 
Ah ! there they stand, their baskets full of flowers, 
The censers trembling in their timid hands, 
All, all the dedicated maids, but one. 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

Why doth he gaze around ? he seems to seek 
What he despairs of finding. 

CALLIAS. 

No, there 's none 
That taller than the rest draws all regards; 
And if they touch their lyres, they will but wake, 
With all their art, the memory of that voice 
Which is not of their choir 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

Ah, poor old man ! 

CALLIAS. 

What! who art thou that dost presume to pity 
The father of the peerless Margarita? 
I tell thee, insolent! even beside the stake 
I shall be prouder of my single child 
Than if my wife had teem'd like Niobe 
With such as thine. 

THIRD CITIZEN. 

He hath no children, sir. 

CALLIAS. 

Would I were like him ! — Ah, no — no, — my child ! 

I know that I 'm come forth to see thee die 

For this strange God, thy father never worshipp'd ; 

Yet all my wrath is gone, and half my sorrow, 

But nothing of my love. Whate'er thou dost 

Is sanctified by being done by thee — 

Thy crime hath lost its hatefulness. I pass'd 

By Phcebus' shrine, and, or his angry form 

Wore less of terror, or my soul had learn 'd 

To scorn a God, that could not save his faithful 

From misery, or teach them to endure it. 

FOURTH CITIZEN. 

Heard ye 

CALLIAS. 

Alas! what hath the old man said. 
That ye lower on me with reproachful brows ? 
Oh friends ! I have been dreaming of my daughter, 
Dreaming in sleep, which but the soft remembrance 
Of her bewitching ways shed o'er mine eyes, 
And know not what I think, or what I say. 

THE MULTITUDE. 

Olybius ! Back — back — Olybius ! 

385 



376 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



FIRST CITIZEN. 

Rend, rend the heaven with shouts, cast high your caps, 
And wave your garlands as the autumn wind 
Waves the vine-tendrils. 

SECOND CITIZEN. 

Citizens, behold him! 
With how serene a step he mounts the throne, 
As 't were his birthright to o'erawe mankind 
With his superior state. 

FOURTH CITIZEN. 

I^ow like to Neptune! 
That sits upon his lofty car, and rules 
All ocean with the shaking of his trident ; 
The jEgean and the barbarous Pontic seas. 
The Tyrrhene and the stormy Adriatic, 
And the wide surface of the Libyan main, 
To where it breaks on Calpe's rock, rise up 
In tumult, or lie strewn in breathless peace 
Beneath his nod, — even thus Olybius sways 
The surges of yon boundless multitudes. 

FIRST CITIZEN. 

If CoEsar's self looks from his Capitol 

With nobler and more Jove-like brow, mankind 

Must shrink into the earth before him. 

OLYBIUS. 

Callias ! 

FOURTH CITIZEN. 

Thou 'rt beckon'd from the crowd by great Olybius. 
Happy old man I 

CALLIAS. 

Accursed happiness! 
And will he set my childless misery up 
To be a wider gaze ? — My Lord, I 'm here. 

OLYBIUS. 

Sit, Callias, here, beneath our feet. 

CALLIAS. 

'TisWelL- 
He from whose heart ye rend the sacrifice 
Should have an eminent station to behold it. 

OLYBIUS (apart). 
Forbear thy bitter speech — there 's hope 

CALLIAS. 

What hope ? 
Alas! I 'm now so sunk in misery, 
I know not what to hope, or what to fear. 
Will it offend thee should I veil my face. 
Lest my weak tears reprove thy sterner justice ? 

OLYBIUS. 

Rack me not thus — but — peace ! — Let the rites begin, 

MACER. 

The maids lift up their hymn around the temple. 

HYMN TO APOLLO. 

I. 

To Pa3an ! as we sing 

Light our fragrant censers swing, 

And each laden basket showers 

All its painted store of flowers. 

lo Pffian I Clarian God ! 

Come and fill thy proud abode. 

lo Pffian ! we behold 

Wought but walls that flame with gold ; 



Long retiring colonnades 
Crowded with the sacred maids: 
lo Pa;an ! youth divine. 
Opes not yet thy secret shrine ? 

lo Pasan ! 't is not vain; 

Far be every foot profane ! 

Lo, the golden tripod shakes, 

And the marble pavement quakes: 

Spare, oh spare our dazzled sight, 

Lo, unveil'd the Lord of Light! 

II. 

The God ! the God ! behold him come 
Down through the round and sky-like dome, 
In one wide flood of radiant gold 
O'er all the kindling statue roll'd; 
From his unclouded throne on high 
Rushes the tffulgcnt Deity. 

The God ! the God ! in every vein 
The panting marble lives again : 
The cheeks with beauteous anger glow, 
And burns the high exulting brow: 
The motion of the irradiate hair 
Proclaims Latona's offspring there. 

HL 

lo Pa?an ! we adore thee, 
Ph(Ebus, low we bow before thee, 
lo Pffian ! Lycian king ! 
Syria's crowding myriads sing : 
lo Pa:an! Heaven and earth 
Mingle in our holy mirth. 

OLYBIUS. 

Now lead the captives forth to hear their doom — 
To worship at yon sumptuous shrine, or die. 

VOPISCUS. 

They come ! they come ! the universal yell 
Of execration follows them along, 
Deepening as it approaches, like the roar 
Of thunders travelling up the cloudy heavens, 
Till o'er our heads it bursts. 

OLYBIUS. 

What sounds are these, 
So melancholy, yet so full of joy. 
Like songs of victory round some aged chief, 
That in the war hath lost his only son ? 

The above. The Christians. 

CHRISTIAN HY.MN. 

Oh Jesus! by the mortal pains we bear. 
And by the galling chains and garbof shame we wear, 
Sad son of Mary ! are thy children known : — 
And by our flesh with ruthless scourges torn. 
By unrelenting man's insatiate hate and scorn. 
Crucified Sufferer ! are we not thine own? 
Oh man of sorrows ! and with grief acquainted. 
Along the path of woe, like thine, our feet have 
fainted : 
And anguish soon shall choke our parting breath, 
And soon our tortured limbs, like thine, be cold in 
death. 

386 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



377 



Oh Jesus ! by the strength thou givest still, 
And by our cheerful scorn of infamy and ill, 

Son of the Highest, are thy children known. 

By all the exulting joy we inly feel 
Beneath the lictor's rod, or headsman's biting steel. 

Triumphant Saviour! are we not thine own? 

Oh Lord of glory, to the Sire ascended. 
Like thine, our anguish soon shall be in rapture ended. 

And we shall stand thy starry host among. 
And round the sapphire throne swell high the Ho- 
sanna song! 

MACER. 

What, madmen! hath the scourge and torture taught 
No wisdom ? 

OLYBIUS. 

By the Gods ! look there, look there, 
Callias ! she wears the bridal robe, and holds 
The sacred lyre. 

VOPISCUS. 

All Aniioch waits the doom 
Of great Olybius ! wherefore doth he pause, 
And bend to that old priest ? 

MACER. 

He rises — Peace ! 

OLYBIUS. 

Hear me once more, ye proud rebellious men, 
Or never hear again the voice of man. 
Behold the temple, where all Antioch serves ! 
Behold the God himself, whose dreadful brow 
Awe-strikes the soul to speechless homage ! Serve 
And live, or die in earth in fiery anguish, 
And be thrust down t' infernal Nemesis, 
For Hell's dark Gods t' avenge insulted Heaven. 

CHRISTIANS. 

The Lord our God is with us, and we fear not. 

OLYBIUS. 

The Lord your God — where ? 

FABIUS. 

Every where — the worlds 
Are all his chambers ; this capacious earth 
Is but the footstool of his throne, the heavens 
Hang in their folds of light t' o'ercanopy 
The Omnipresent. 

CHARIN'US. 

Where ? — in thunderclouds 
Of vengeance, which but wait our voice to lanch 

them 
Upon thine head. 

OLYBIUS. 

We call'd you not before us 
To stun our ears with this unholy madness. 
The hour of mercy 's o'er — or sacrifice 
Or die. 

CHRISTIANS. 

We will not sacrifice to Gods 
Wrought by man's hands. 

CIIARINUS. 

Ye laugh, but your mad laughter, 
Proud Heathens, shall be changed to scalding tears. 

OLYBIUS. 

Diodotus! brave soldier, wilt thou fall 
In this ignoble warfare ? 



DIODOTUS. 

Rather call it 
The noblest conquest Roman ever won. 

OLYBIUS. 

Charinus ! dost accept the proffer'd mercy ? 

CIIARINUS. 

False infidel ! 

OLYBIUS. 

'T is enough. — Calanthias ! 

CALANTIIIAS. 

I thought t' have seen, even in my flesh, the Lord 
Come down t' avenge his own ; but I shall see him 
A blazing follower in his kingly train. 

OLYBIUS. 

Fabius ! thine age should teach thee wisdom. 

FABIUS. 

Youth, 
Mine age would only make me fondly mourn, 
That I have but the dregs and lees of life 
To pour for my Redeemer. 

OLYBIUS. 

What ! are all 
So full of frenzy? 

CHRISTIANS. 

All so lull of faith. 

OLYBIUS. 

Last then to thee, fair Priestess! Art thou still 
Resolved with this ungodly crew to share 
Our vengeance, or declares that bridal dress 
A soft revolt, and falling off to love ? 

MARGARITA. 

To love — but not of man. Oh ! pardon me, 
Olybius, if my wedding garb afflict 
Thy soul with hope ; I had but robes of sadness, 
Nor would I have my day of victory seem 
A day of mourning. But as (he earthly bride 
Lingers upon the threshold of her home. 
And through the mist of parting tears surveys 
The chamber of her youth, even so have I 
With something of a clinging fondness look'd 
Upon the flowers and trees of lovely Daphne. 
Sweet waters, that have murmur'd to my prayers ; 
Banks, where my hand hath cuU'd sweet chaplets, 

once 
For rites unholy, since to strew the graves 
Of buried saints ; and thou, majestic temple ! 
That wouldst become a purer worship, thou, 
How oft from all thine echoing shrines hast answer'd 
To my soft lyre — Farew^ell ! for heaven I quit you. 
But yet nor you, nor these my loved companions 
Once in the twilight dance and morning song. 
Though ye are here to hymn my death, not you 
Can I forsake without a bleeding spirit. 

OLYBIUS. 

She weeps! Wise Macer — such a melting nature 
Will ne'er endurC' 

MARGARITA. 

Olybius, wilt thou scorn 
A criminal's blessing? God repay thy love, 

Forgive thy cruelty I But thou — oh thou ! 

That livest but in my life, no parting bride 
But in her ecstasy of sorrow clasps 
Her father's knees, and sobs upon his bosom, 

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That is no more to be her place of refuge. 
Father ! my fetter'd arms are stretch'd in vain, 
But haply they are merciful, and prevent 
A keener pang. 

CALLIAS. 

Let me approach her! 

OLYBIUS. 

Never, 
Till she accept our mercy. Sacrifice ! 
IVor aught of bridal joy or bridal sorrow 
Shall be denied thee. 

Beautiful ! what mean'st thou ? 
Why dost thou look to yon bright heaven ? what seest, 
That makes thy full eyes kindle as they gaze, 
Undazzled, on the fiery sky ? — Give place — 
Strike off those misplaced fetters from her limbs : 
The sunshine falls around her like a mantle, 
The robes of saffron flame like gold — Give place. 

MACER. 

Great Phoebus conquers ! See, she strikes the lyre 
With his ecstatic fervour. 

CALLIAS. 

Peace — oh peace ! 
And I shall hear once more before I die 
That voice on which I 've lived these long, long years. 
Hark, even the winds are mute to hear her — Peace ! 

MARGARITA. 

What means yon blaze on high ? 
The empyrean sky 
Like the rich veil of some proud fane is rending. 
I see the star-paved land, 
Where all the angels stand, 
Even to the highest height in burning rows ascending. 
Some with their wings dispread. 
And bow'd the stately head. 
As on some mission of God's love departing, 
Like flames from midnight's conflagration starting; 
Behold the appointed messengers are they, 
And nearest earth they wait to waft our souls away. 

Higher and higher still 
More lofty statures fill 
The jasper courts of the everlasting dwelling. 
Cherub and Seraph pace 
The ilhmitable space. 
While sleep the folded plumes from their white 
shoulders swelling. 

From all the harping throng 
Bursts the tumultuous song 
Like the unceasing sounds of cataracts pouring, 
Hosanna o'er hosanna louder soaring; 
That faintly echoing down to earthly ears, 
Hath seem'd the concert sweet of the harmonious 
spheres. 

Still my rapt spirit mounts 
And lo ! beside the founts 
Of flowing light Christ's chosen saints reclining; 
Distinct amid the blaze 
Their palm-crown'd heads they raise. 
Their white robes even through that o'erpovvering 
lustre shining. 
Each in his place of state, 
Long the bright Twelve have sate, 



O'er the celestial Sion high uplifted ; 
While those with deep prophetic raptures gifted, 
Where Life's glad river rolls its tideiess streams, 
Enjoy the full completion of their heavenly dreams. 

Again — I see again 
The great victorious train, 
The Martyr Army from their toils reposing ; 
The blood-red robes they wear 
Empurpling all the air. 
Even their immortal limbs, the signs of wounds dis» 
closing. 
Oh, holy Stephen, thou 
Art there, and on thy brow 
Hast still the placid smile it wore in dying. 
When under the heap'd stones in anguish lying 
Thy clasping hands were fondly spread to heaven, 
And thy last accents pray'd thy foes might be forgiven. 

Beyond ! ah, who is there 
With the white snowy hair ? 
'T is he — 't is he, the Son of Man appearing! 
At the right hand of One, 
The darkness of whose throne 
That sun-eyed seraph Host behold with awe and 
fearing. 

O'er him the rainbow springs. 
And spreads its emerald wings, 
Down to the glassy sea his loftiest seat o'erarching. 
Hark — thunders from his throne, like steel-clad armies 
marching — 
The Christ ! the Christ commands us to his home ! 
Jesus, Redeemer, Lord, we come, we come, we come ! 

THE MULTITUDE. 

Blasphemy ! blasphemy ! She doth profane 
Great Phoebus' raptures — tear her off! 

OLYBIUS. 

Ha ! slaves. 
Would ye usurp our judgment-throne ? 

MACER. 

Be calm. 

CALLIAS. 

Alas ! what mean ye, friends ? can such a voice 

Offend you ? O my child ! thou 'rt forced to leave me. 

But not to leave me with averted eye. 

As though thy father's face were hateful to thee. 

But yet I dare not chide thee, and I will not. 

I do remember, when thy mother pass'd 

I hid my fiice in my cold shuddering hands. 

But still I gaze on thee, and gaze as though 

There were a joy in seeing thee even thus. 

OLYBIUS. 

Macer, thou know'st their separate doom. Lead off 
The victims, each to his appointed place. 

CHRISTIANS. 

Glory! Glory! Glory! the Lord Almighty liveth, 
The Lord Almighty doth but take the mortal life he 

giveth. 
Glory! Glory! Glory! the Lord Almighty reigneth, 
He who forfeits earthly life, a life celestial gaineth. 

CALLIAS. 

Why do ye hold me back ? — My child ! they bind me 
With the hard fetters of their arras — thou hear'stnot. 

388 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



379 



Speak ! have ye children ? have ye ever heard 
An infant voice that murmur'd to you "Father!" 
Ye Gods, how have ye peopled this fierce Antioch, 
That the fond natural love of child and parent 
Is made a crime. 

Howl, hovi'l ! ay, bloody men, 
Howl in your Amphitheatre with joy : 
Glut your insatiate hearts with human blood. 
— Nay, ruthless Prefect, thou 'st not sent her there 
To perish : not to have her tender limbs 

Rent — torn 

The above, Officer. 

OFFICER. 

Great Prefect, he is dead 

C.ILLIAS. 

He— he— 
'T was he, thou said'st ? 

OFFICER. 

Diodotus, great Prefect, 
In the arena, as became a soldier, 
He stood with undiscolour'd cheek, while lay 
The crouching lion stiffening all his mane. 
With his white-gleaming teeth, and lashing tail, 
Scourging to life the slumbering wrath within him. 
But the calm victim look'd upon the people. 
Piled o'er each other in the thronging seats, 
And ulter'd these strange words — " Alas! lost souls. 
There 's one that, fiercer than yon brinded lion. 

Is prowling round, insatiate to devour " 

Nought more we heard, but one long savage howl 
Of the huge monster as he sprung, and then 
The grinding of his ravenous jaws. 

The above, Second Officer. 

CAL1^I.\S. 

Another — 
And what hast thou to say ? 

second officer. 

Calanthias died 
Beneath the scourge ; his look toward the sky. 
As though he thought the golden clouds conceal'd 
Some slow avenger of his cause. 

OLYBIUS. 

What now ? 

VOPISCUS. 

The voice of triumph clamours up the skies. 
And Ph(Ebus' name is mingled with the shouts 
Of transport. 

CALLIAS. 

Can it be ? 
The above. Third Officer. 

THIRD OFFICER. 

Apollo triumphs! 

CALLIAS. 

Thou say'st not so, she will not sacrifice — 
My child ! I look'd not yet for this. 

What 's here ? 
The above. Charinus. 

CALLIAS. 

Back, thou foul w retch ! I rush'd not forth to thee. 

charinus. 
Foul wretch indeed! I have forsworn my God. 
The blinding flames scorch'd up into mine eyes ; 
33* 2X 



And the false devils murmur'd all around me 
Soft sounds of water. 

OLVBIUS. 

Hurry him away ! 
On to the altar ! 

THE MULTITUDE. 

lo! lo! Psan! 
lo Triumphe ! 

charinus. 
Hah ! they point at me, 
The angels from the clouds, my blissful brethren. 
That mount in radiance : ere they 're lost in light, 
With sad, and solemn, and reproachful voices 
They call me Judas — Juda.', that betray 'd. 
That murder'd his blest master — and himself — 
Accurst of men — and outcast from thy fold. 
Oh Christ ! and for my pride ? why then I '11 wrap 
My soul in stern obduracy and live 
As jocund as the careless heathen here. 
No Peter's tears fill my dry eyes; no beam 
Of mercy on my darkening soul — On, on — 
And I will laugh, and in my laughter sing 
lo Triumphe ! lo Pa?an ! 

OLYBIUS. 

Now 
Give him the knife of sacrifice. 

CHARINUS. 

Down ! down ! 
'T is wet, and reeks with my Redeemer's blood. 

OFFICER. 

He 's fled. 

OLYBIUS. 

Go after — drag him back. 

OFFICER. 

'T is vain. 
He cried aloud — "The devil hath wrestled with me. 
And vanquish'd!" — and he plunged the sacred knife 
To his unhallow'd heart. 

OLYBIUS. 

Ignoble wretch ! 
Who dared not die — yet fear'd to live. 

But pause — 
What means this deathlike stillness? not a sound 
Or murmur from yon countless multitudes. 
A pale contagious horror seems to creep 
Even to our presence. Men gaze mutely round. 
As in their neighbour's face to read the secret 
They dare not speak themselves. 

Old man ! whence comest thou ? 
What is 't? 

CALLIAS. 

I know not ! I approach'd the place 
Of sacrifice, and my spirit shrank within me; 
And I came back, 1 know not how. 

OLYBIUS. 

Still rnute ! 
Even thus along his vast domain of silence 
Dark Pluto gazes, where the sullen spirits 
Speak only with fi.x'd looks, and voiceless motions— 
And ye are like ihem. — Speak to me, I charge you ; 
Nor let mine own voice, like an evil omen. 
Load the hot air, unanswer'd. 

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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CALLIAS. 


Gazing upon that almost orphan'd child — 


Hark! 

VOPISCUS. 

Didst hear it ? 
That shriek, as though some barbarous foe had scaled 


Oh ! by its dear and precious memory, 

I do beseech thee, slay me first and quickly : 

'T is that my father may not see my death." 

CALLIAS. 


The city walls. 


Oh cruel kindness! and I would have closed 


OLYBIUS. 

Is 't horror or compassion ? 
Or both ? 


Thine eyes with such a fond and gentle pressure; 
I would have smooth'd thy beauteous limbs, and laid 
My head upon thy breast, and died with thee. 


The above. Fourth Officer. 

OLYBIUS. 


OLYBIUS. 

Good father ! once I thought to call thee so, 


What means thy hurried look? Speak — speak! 
Though thy words blast like lightning. 


How do I envy thee this her last fondness! 
She had no dying thought of me.— Go on. 


OFFICER. 

Mighty Prefect, 


OFFICER. 

With that the headsman wiped from hisswarth cheeks 


The apostate Priestess Margarita 

OLYBIUS. 

How ? 


A moisture like to tears. But she, meanwhile. 
On the cold block composed her head, and cross'd 
Her hands upon her bosom, that scarce heaved. 


Where 's Macer ? 

OFFICER. 

By the dead. 

OLYBIUS. 


She was so tranquil ; cautious, lest her garments 
Should play the traitors to her modest care. 
And as the cold wind touch'd her naked neck, 
And fann'd away the few unbraided hairs. 


What dead? 

OFFICER. 

Remove 


Blushes o'erspread her face, and she look'd up 

As softly to reproach his tardiness: 

And some fell down upon their knees, some clasp'd 


Thy sword, which tliou dost brandish at my throat, 
And I shall answer. 


Their hands, enamour'd even to adoration 
Of that half-smiling face and bending form. 


OLYBIUS. 


CALLIAS. 


Speak, and instantly, 
Or I will dash thee down, and trample from thee 


But he — but he — the savage executioner 

OFFICER. 


Thy hideous secret. 


lie trembled. 


OFFICER. 


CALLIAS. 


It is nothing hideous — 


Ila ! God's blessing on his head ! 


'T is but the enemy of our faith — She died 
Nobly, in truth — but 


And the axe slid from out his palsied hand ? 

OFFICER. 


CiLLL-VS. 

Dead ! she is not dead ! 
Thou liest ! I have his oath, the Prefect's oath ; 


lie gave it to another. 

CALLIAS. 

And 


I had forgot it in my fears, but now 

I well remember, that she should not die. 

Faugh! who will trust in Gods and men like these? 


OFFICER. 

It fell. 

CALLIAS. 


OLYBIUS. 

Slave! Slave! dost mock me ? Better 't were for thee 
That this be false, than if thou 'dst found a treasure 


I see it, 
I see it like the lightning flash — I see it, 
And the blood bursts — my blood I — my daughter's 


To purchase kingdoms. 

OFFICER. 


blood ! 
Off— let me loose. 


Hear me but a while. 
She had beheld each sad and cruel death. 


OFFICER. 

Where goest thou ? 


And if she shudder'd, 't was as one that strives 

With nature's soft infirmity of pity, 

One look to heaven restoring all her calmness ; 


CALLIAS. 

To the Christian, 
To learn the faith in which my daughter died, 


Save when that dastard did renounce his faith, 
And she shed tears for him. Then led they forth 
Old Fabius. When a quick and sudden cry 


And follow her as quickly as I may. 

Olybius, Macer, and the rest. 


or Callias, and a parting in the throng, 
Proclaim'd her father's coming. Forth she sprang. 
And clasp'd the frov^ning headsman's knees, and 

said — 
"Thou know'st me, when thou laid'st on thy sick bed 
Clirist sent me there to wipe thy burning brow. 
There was an infant play'd about thy chamber, 
And thy pale cheek would smile and weep at once, 


OLYBIUS. 

Macer! is this thy faithful service? 

macer. 

Ah, 
So rapid 

OLYBIUS. 

Not a word ! Thou think'st I "11 stoop 
To dash thee to the earth— But I 'ra bo sick 



390 



THE MARTYR OF ANTIOCH. 



381 



Of this accursed pomp, 1 will not use 
Its privilege of vengeance. 

Fatal trappings 
Of proud authority, that like the robe 
Of Nessus shine and burn into the entrails !— 
Supremacy! whose great prerogative 
Is to be blasted by superior misery! 
No more will I possess the fatal power 
Of murdering those I love. All-ruling sceptre ! 
That wert mine instrument of bloodshed, down ! 
Mine hand shall never grasp thee more. Vopiscus, 
Assume the vacant Prefect's seat, and be 
Curst like myself— with sway : I cannot wish thee 
A doom more hateful — 

Who comes here ? 

OFFICER. 

Great Prefect ! 
The enchantress Margarita by her death 
Hath wrought upon the changeful populace. 
That they cry loudly on the Christians' God. 
Embolden'd multitudes from every quarter 
Throng forth, and in the face of day proclaim 
Their lawless failh. They have ta'en up the body, 
And hither, as in proud ovation, bear it 
With clamour and with song. All Antioch crov\'ds 
Applauding round them — they are here, behold them. 

CHRISTIAN HYMN. 

Sing to the Lord ! let harp, and lute, and voice 
Up to the expanding gates of Heaven rejoice. 

While the bright Martyrs to their rest are borne; 
Sing to the Lord ! their blood-stain'd course is run. 
And every head its diadem hath won, 

Rich as the purple of the summer morn ; 
Sing the triumphant champions of their God, 
While burn their mounting feet along their sky-ward 
road. 

Sing to the Lord ! for her in Beauty's prime 
Snatch'd from this wintery earth's ungenial clime. 

In the eternal spring of Paradise to bloom ; 
For her the world display'd its brightest treasure, 
And the airs panted with the songs of pleasure. 

Before earth's throne she chose the lowly tomb, 
The vale of tears with willing footsteps trod. 
Bearing her Cross with thee, incarnate Son of God! 

Sing to the Lord ! it is not shed in vain. 

The blood of martyrs ! from its freshening rain 

High springs the Church like some fount-shadow- 
ing palm ; 
The nations crowd beneath its branching shade, 
Of its green leaves are kingly diadems made, 

And wrapt within its deep embosoming calm 



Earth shrinks to slumber like the breezeless deep. 
And war's tempestuous vultures fold their wings and 
sleep. 

Sing to the Lord ! no more the Angels fly 
Far in the bosom of the stainless sky 

The sound of fierce licentious sacrifice. 
From shrined alcove, and stately pedestal, 
The marble Gods in cumbrous ruin fail. 

Headless in dust the awe of nations lies ; 
Jove's thunder crumbles in his mouldering hand. 
And mute as sepulchres the hymnless temples 
stand. 

Sing to the Lord ! from damp prophetic cave 
No more the loose-hair'd Sibyls burst and rave ; 

Nor watch the augurs pale Ihe wandering bird: 
No more on hill or in the murky wood, 
'Mid frantic shout and dissonant music rude. 

In human tones are wailing victims heard; 
Nor fathers by the reeking allar stone 
Cowl their dark heads t' escape their children's dying 
groan. 

Sing to the Lord ! no more the dead are laid 
In cold despair beneath the cypress shade. 

To sleep the eternal sleep, that knows no morn : 
There, eager still to burst death's brazen bands, 
The Angel of the Resurrection stands ; 

While, on its own immortal pinions borne. 
Following the Breaker of the imprisoning tomb. 
Forth springs the exulting soul, and shakes away its 
gloom. 

Sing to the Lord ! the desert rocks break out. 
And the throng'd cities, in one gladdening shout; 

The farthest shores by pilgrim step explored ; 
Spread all your wings, ye winds, and waft around, 
Even to the starry cope's pale waning bound, 

Earth's universal homage to the Lord ; 
Lift up thine head, imperial Capitol, 
Proud on thy height to see the banner'd Cross unroll. 

Sing to the Lord ! when Time itself shall cease, 
And final Ruin's desolating peace 

Enwrap this wide and restless world of man ; 
When the Judge rides upon the enthroning wind. 
And o'er all generations of mankind 

Eternal Vengeance waves its winnowing fan ; 
To vast Infinity's remotest space. 
While ages run their everlasting race, 
Shall all the Beatific Hosts prolong, 
Wide as the glory of the Lamb, the Lamb's triumph- 
ant song I 

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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Though, in the following Poem, I have adhered 
strictly to the outline in Scripture, I have availed my- 
self of whatever appeared to my purpose in the profane 
historians. My general authorities, where I do not 
follow the Book of Daniel, are Herodotus and Diodorus 
Siculus ; but, perhaps, the best English account of 
Babylon is to be found in Prideaux's Connexion of the 
Old and New Testament. 

The publication of the Martyr of Antioch was con- 
siderably delayed by unforeseen circumstances. I take 
the liberty of mentioning this for two reasons. In the 
first place, because a coincidence in several circum- 
stances between that Poem and the Novel of Valerius, 
has led to a charge of plagiarism ; when, in fact, the 
Poem was written, and had been seen by some of my 
friends, before the publication of the prose work. Se- 
condly, I am unwilling that my Poems should appear 
to follow each other with a haste and rapidity incon- 
sistent with that deference for public opinion, which 
the manner of their reception would rather increase 
than diminish. 

May I presume to hope that this, as well as the pre- 
ceding works of the same nature, may tend to the ad- 
vancement of those interests, in subservience to which 
alone our lime and talents can be worthily employed — 
those of piety and religion ? 

CHARACTERS. 



The Destroying Angel. 

Belshazzar. 

Arioch, Captain of the Guard. 

Sabaris, Chief Eunuch. 

Kalassan, High Priest of Bel. 

Daniel, i 

Jmlah, > Jews. 

Adonijah, ^ 

NiTOCRis, Mother of Belshazzar. 

Naomi. 

BEiNINA. 

Babylonian Nobles, Priests, Diviners, Astrologers, etc. 
Scene Babylon. 

BELSHAZZAR. 



The City of Babylon — Morning. 

THE DESTROyiXG ANGEL. 

Within the cloud-pavilion of my rest. 

Amid the Thrones and Princedoms, that await 



Their hour of ministration to the Lord, 
I heard the summons, and I stood with wings 
Outspread for flight, before the Eternal Throne. 
And, from the unapproached depth of light 
Wherein the Almighty Father of the worlds 
Dwells, from seraphic sight of glory veil'd. 
Came forth the soundless mandate, which I felt 
Within, and sprung upon my obedient plumes. 
But as I sail'd my long and trackless voyage 
Down the deep bosom of unbounded space, 
The manifest bearer of Almighty wrath, 
I saw the Angel of each separate star 
Folding his wings in terror, o'er his orb 
Of golden fire ; and shuddering till I pass'd 
To pwur elsewhere Jehovah's cup of vengeance. 

And now I stand upon this world of man. 
My wonted resting-place. — But thou, oh Earth ! 
Thou only dost endure my fatal presence 
Undaunted. As of old, I hover o'er 
This haughty city of Chaldean Bel, 
That not the less pours forth her festal pomp 
To do unholy worship to her Gods, 
That are not Gods, but works of mortal hands. 

Behold ! the Sun hath burst the Eastern gates. 
And all his splendour floods the tower'd walls, 
Upon whose wide immeasurable circuit 
The harness'd chariots crowd in long array. 
Down every stately line of pillar'd streets, 
To each of the hundred brazen gates, young men 
And flower-crown'd maidens, lead the mazy dance. 
Here the vast Palace, whence yon airy gardens 
Spread round, and to the morning airs hang forth 
Their golden fruits and dewy opening flowers; 
While still the low mists creep, in lazy folds. 
O'er the house-tops beneath. In every court. 
Through every portal, throng, in servile haste. 
Captains and Nobles. There, before the Temple, 
On the far side of wide Euphrates' stream, 
The Priests of Bel their impious rites prepare : 
And cymbal clang, and glittering dulcimer, 
With shrill melodious salutation, hail 
The welcome morn, awakening all the City 
To the last dawn that e'er shall gladden her. 

Babylon ! Babylon ! that wakest in pride 
And glory, but shall sleep in shapeless ruin. 
Thus, with my broad and overshadowing wings, 
I do embrace thee for mine own ; forbidding, 
Even at this instant, yon bright orient Sun, 
To shed his splendours on thy lofty streets. 
Oh, Desolation's sacred place, as now 
Thou 'rt darken'd, shall the darkness of the dead 
Enwrap thee in its everlasting shade ! 

392 



BELSHAZZAR. 



383 



Babylon ! Babylon ! upon the wreck 
Of that most impious tower your Fathers rear'd 
To scale the crystal battlements of heaven, 
1 set my foot, here lake my gloomy rest 
Even till that hour be come, that comes full soon. 



Before the Temple. 
Kalassan — The Priests. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

Didst thou behold it ? 

SECOND PRIEST. 

What? 

FIRST PRIEST. 

'T is gone, 't is past — 
And yet but now 'twas there, a cloudy darkness, 
That, swallowing up the rays of the orient Sun, 
Cast back a terrible night o'er all the City. 

THIRD PRIEST. 

Who stands aghast at this triumphant hour? 
I tell thee that our Dreamers have beholden 
Majestic visions. The besieging Mede 
Was cast, with all his chariots, steeds, and men. 
Into Euphrates' bosom. 

KALASSAN. 

Do ye marvel 
But now that it was dark? yon orient Sun, 
The Lord of Light, withdrew his dawning beams. 
Till he could see the glory of the world, 
Belshazzar, in his gilded galley riding 
Across Euphrates. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

Give command that all 
The brazen gates along the river side. 
Stand open to receive the suppliant train. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Hark! with the trumpet sound their strong recoil 
Upon their grating hinges harshly mingles. 

THIRD PRIEST. 

Lo ! how the bridge is groaning with the gifts 
Of the great King. The camels bow their heads 
Beneath the bright and odorous load they bear ; 
The proud steeds toss their flower-enwoven manes, 
And the cars rattle with their ponderous sound ; 
While, silent, the slow elephants pursue 
Their wondering way, and bear their crowded towers, 
Widely reflected on the argent stream. 

FOURTH PRIEST. 

How proudly do the waters toss and foam 
Before the barges, that with gilded prows 
Set the pale spray on fire ! The rowers, clad 
In Egypt's finest tunics, as they strike 
The waters with their palmy oars, awake 
Sweet music, as it seems, from all the tide ; 
So exquisitely to the dashing strokes 
Are the sweet lutes and floating hautboys timed. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

Yon bark, in which, at times, the silken curtains 
Are by the courteous breezes fann'd aside. 
Is that in which the Mother of the mightiest, 
Nitocris, sits. Her presence seems to awe 
2Z 



At once, and give a pride to those who row 
Her queenly state 

KALASSAN. 

Behind — 't is he ! — 't is he I — 
Belshazzar's self— the waters crow-d around. 
As though ambitious to reflect their Sovereign; * 

And all the throng'd and living shores, that now 
To the far limits of the City, pass'd 
His name in one long shout, have paused to hear 
Our loftier homage. Are the Seventy here ? 

FIRST PRIEST. 

All. 

KALASSAN. 

Lift; we, then, the solemn strain, in praise 
Of the great King, and all the suppliant court 
Will answer us in praise of mightiest Bel. 

SONG OF THE PRIESTS. 

Where are the thousand-throned kings. 
Beneath whose empires' spacious wings, 
The wide earth lay in mute repose? 
He rose — Chaldea's King arose ! 
And bow'd was every crowned head. 
And every marshall'd army fled ; 
Before his footstool bow'd they down, 
The all-conquering Lord of Babylon ! 

SONG OP THE SUPPLIANTS. 

Where are the thousand-shrined Gods, 
Within whose temples' proud abodes 
The nations crowded to invoke ? 
He woke, Chaldea's God awoke! 
And mute was every sumptuous feast. 
And rite, and song, and victim ceased ; 
And every Fane was overthrown. 
Before the God of Babylon ! 

PRIESTS. 

Ammon's crested pride lay low. 
And broke was Elam's horned bow ; 
Damascus heard the ponderous fall 
Of old Benhadad's palace wall ; 
1'he ocean redden'd with the fire 
From the rock-built strengths of Tyre. 
False was fierce Philistia's trust. 
Desert Moab mourns in dust. 
Lo ! in chains our Captains bring 
Haughty Zion's eyeless King. 
Kedar's tents are struck, her bands 
Scatter'd o'er her burning sands. 
And Egypt's Pharaoh quails before 
The Assyrian Lion's conquering roar. 

THE SUPPLIANTS. 

From his high Philistine fane, 
Sea-born Dagon fled amain ; 
Moloch, he whose valley stood 
Deep with infants' blameless blood: 
Chemos, struck with pale affright. 
Left his foul unfinish'd rite. 
Her waning moon Aslarte veil'd. 
When the Tyrian's sea-wall iiiil'd. 
In vain Damascus' children meet 
At lofty Rimmon's molten feet. 

393 



384 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And vain were Judah's prayers to him. 
Between the golden Cherubim ; 
In vain the Arab, in his flight, 
Call'd on the gUttering stars of night; 
And vain Osiris' timbrels blew 
Over Egypt's maddening crew. 

KALASSAN. 

Lord of the world, and of the eternal city, 
That wear'st Chaldea's regal diadem 
Wreath'd with Assyria's, wherefore art thou here 
Before the Temple of all-powerful Bel ? 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Chief of the Seventy chosen Priests, that serve 
Within the Temple of our God, thou know'st 
That the rebellious Mede, confederate 
With Ashkenaz and Elam, and the might 
Of Persia, hath begirt with insolent siege 
Our city walls, and I would know what swift 
And terrible vengeance is ordain'd on high 
For the revolted from Chaldea's sway ? 

KALASSAN. 

Live thou, O King, for ever ! We are holding 
This day our solemn rite. Our Priests and Seers 
Each at his office stands throughout the Temple ; 
And all our eight ascending towers that rise, 
Each above each, in heavenward range, are throng'd 
With those that strike the cymbal, and with voice 
And mystic music summon down the Gods 
To give us answer. 

I BELSHAZZAR. 

Priests of Bel, and thou 
High mitred Chief, Kalassan ! Lo, I bring 
Gifts worthy of the Gods and of Belshazzar : 
All that the world in its vast homage casts 
Before our royal feet ; the gold that flows 
In the red waters of the farthest East ; 
The fragrant balm that weeps from glittering trees; 
The ivory, and the thin and snowy robes 
Of Egypt; and the purple merchandise 
Of Sidon ; and the skins of beasts that far 
In the dark forests fly the sight of man, 
Yet not so far but that Assyria's servants 
Track them, and rend away their bloody tribute ; 
And slaves of every hue, and every age. 
From all the kingdoms of our rule. 

KALASSAN. 

Great King, 
What answer wouldst thou, which such sumptuous 

offerings 
May not compel ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Declare ye to our Gods, 
Thus saith Belshazzar : wherefore am I call'd 
The king of Babylon, the scepter'd heir 
Of Nabonassar's (I) sway, if still my sight 
Must be infested with rebellious arms 
That hem my city round ; and frantic cries 
Of onset, and the braying din of battle 
Disturb my sweet and wonted festal songs ? 

NITOCRIS. 

In the God's name, and in mine own, I answer! 
When Nabonassar's heir shall take the sword 
Of Nabonassar in his valiant hand ; 



With the inborn awe of majesty appal 
Into the dust Rebellion's crested front: 
When for the gliding bark on the smooth waters, 
Whose motion doth but lull his silken couch, 
He mounts the rushing chariot, and in arras 
Asserts himself the lord of human kind. 

SABARIS. 

Will he endure it ? 

NITOCRIS. 

Oh, my son ! my son ! 
Must I repent me of that thrill of joy 
I felt, when round my couch the slaves proclaira'd 
I had brought forth a man into the world, 
A child for empire born, the cradled Lord 
Of Nations — oh, my son ! — and all the pride 
With which I saw thy fair and open brow 
Expand in beauteous haughtiness, commanding 
Ere thou could'st speak? And with thy growth, thy 

greatness 
Still ripen'd : likfe the palm amid the grove, 
Thou stoodst, the loftiest, at once, and comeliest 
Of all the sons of men. And must I now 
Wish all my pangs upon a shapeless offspring. 
Or on a soft and dainty maiden wasted, 
That might have been, if not herself, like her 
Thy martial ancestress, Semiramis, 
Mightiest — at least the mother of the Mighty ? 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Queen of Assyria, Nabonassar's daughter ! 

Wife of my royal father, Merodach ! 

Greater than all, from whom myself was born! 

The Gods that made thee mother of Belshazzar, 

Have arm'd thee with a dangerous license. Thou, 

Secure, mayst utter what from meaner lips 

Had call'd upon the head the indignant sword 

Of Justice. But to thee we deign reply. 

Is 't not the charge of the great Gods t' uphold 

The splendour of Ihe world that doth them homage? 

As soon would they permit the all-glorious Sun 

To wither from their palace vault in heaven, 

As this rich empire from the earth. 

NITOCRIS. 

And therefore 
Be as the Gods, Belshazzar, and stand forth 
To sweep away the desolating foe ! 
As when the thunders scatter all abroad 
The lowering clouds at midnight, all the stars 
Look glittering through the bright pellucid sky. 
And in the glorious calm themselves have strew'd. 
Repose triumphant the great Gods. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

O queen ! 
The mother of Chaldea's royal lord 
Ne'er ask'd in vain. Myself this day will mount 
The car of battle, and along the walls 
Display my terrors, for Assyria's hosts 
To kindle into valour at my presence ; 
And the pale rebels from their distant camp. 
Like hunters that have roused the sleeping lion, 
Snatch up their toils and fly 

NITOCRIS. 

Along the walls, 
And not along the dusty battle plain ? 

394 



BELSHAZZAR. 



385 



Yet 't is enough — the fire but sleeps within thee. 
And as the war-horse that hath sported long 
On the green meads, beholds the Hash of arms 
Bright on the fountain where he bathes, and hears 
The martial trumpet sounding, start erect 
His kindhng ears, his agitated mane 
Trembles ; already on his back he feels 
The gorgeous trappings and the armed rider, 
And treads the sward as though, he trampled down 
Whole hosts before him : thus Belshazzar's soul, 
At sight of Babylon's exulting foes. 
Shall waken to the warrior's noble wrath. 



BELSHAZZAR. 



Give instant order ! 



NITOCRIS. 

Oh, tiara'd Mede ! 
And thou fierce Persian, that dost boast thyself 
As hardy as Ihy native mountains! Thou, 
The shepiierd's nursling, Cyrus! feel ye not 
A prescient terror of your coming conqueror? 
The towers with which ye have girt your spacious 

camp, 
Do they not rock even to their deep foundations, 

\ In conscious awe ? But thou, my noble son ! 
Thy mother's heart, that beat but in thy presence, 
Even when thou laid'st in soft inglorious dalliance. 
When home thou com'st, high plumed with victory, 

i hosts 

I In chains around thee, and the routed armies 
Crowding to gaze upon their conqueror. 
As though it were a solace in their fall 
That great Belshazzar stoop'd to overthrow them ; 
When all the myriads of vast Babylon 
Shout in the triumph of their kingly lord ; 
That heart, my son, with such excess of pride 
Will swell, that it wM burst. Even now it fills 

I My woman's eyes with tears : when I should wear 
A brow all rapture, I can only weep. 

KALASSAN. 

Lord of the Nations ! with our richest rites 

Do we propitiate the eternal Gods. 

Upon the golden altar, never wet 

Save with the immaculate blood of yearling lambs (2) 

We sacrifice — and on our topmost tower, 

Where, on his couch, amid his native clouds. 

The God reposes, must the chosen Virgin, (3) 

Whom to our wandering search he first presents 

Await the bright descending Deity. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

What then!— the Gods hold festival to-night! 
And shall the courts of great Chaldea's palace 
Be silent of the festal song ? At eve 
Our banquet shall begin ; and dusky night, 
Astonish'd at our splendour, think his reign 
Usurp'd as by a brighter day. Kalassan ! 
Whence are those golden vessels richly carved 
And bossy with enchased fruits and flowers; 
Goblets, and lavers, and tall chandeliers. 
That, like to blossoming almond trees, branch out 
fn knots of glittering silver? — meet were they 
To minister at great Belshazzar's feast. 



KALASSAN. 

King of the Universe ! those vessels stood 
Erst in the Temple of the Hebrew's God ; 
But when Chaldea's arms laid waste the City, 
And from their Temple, with destroying fire, 
Scared the unresisting Deity, the spoils 
Were seized, and consecrate to mightier Bel. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Let them be borne to grace our feast ! 

KALASSAN. 

Most honour'd 
Were they by such a noble profanation ! 

Give ye the order 

Ha ! what frantic shriek 
Peals through the courts ? 

PRIEST. 

The slaves that girt themselves 
To bear those vessels, on a sudden, all. 
As though by viewless lightnings struck to earth, 
Lie groveling on the pavement, and they clench 
Their vacant hands in horror. 

KALASSAN. 

Raise them up, 
And lash them to their duty. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

King of Earth ! 
The armed statue of thy ancestor. 
Great Nabonassar, on its firm-set pedestal 
Shakes, and its marble panoply resounds 
Like distant thunder ! 

KALASSAN. 

How ! the pavement rocks 
Beneath our feet, like a tempestuous sea! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

What ! are Belshazzar's mandates thus delay'd 
For the pale fears of slaves, and idle sounds 
That shake the earth, but not his kingly soul? 
Aw'ay with them! we will not brook remonstrance 
From vanquish'd men or Gods ! — Away ! I say — 

CHORUS. 

Sovereign of all the streams that flow 
From hills of everlasting snow. 
Through vast Chaldea's fertile reign, 
Down to the red and pearly (4) main ; 
And ere thy giant course is done, 
Through all imperial Babylon; 
By stately towers and palace fair. 
And blooming gardens hung in air; 
By every glowing brazen gate. 
Rolling thy full exulting state. 
Proud River! strew thy waves to rest. 
And smooth to peace thy azure breast, 
While slowly o'er thy willing tide, 
Belshazzar's gilded galleys ride. 
Hear, King of Floods ! Euphrates, hear! 
And pajf-lhe homage of thy fear. 

CHORUS OF SUPPLIANTS. 

Sovereign of all the lamps that shine 
In yon empyreal arch divine. 
That roH'st through half the fiery day. 
O'er realms that own Chaldea's sway ; 
395 



386 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



O'er thrones whose monarchs wear her yoke, 

And cities by her conquests broke ; 

Thou Sun, whose morning splendours dwell 

Upon the Temple lowers of Bel, 

The quiver of thy noontide rays 

Exhaust in all their fiery blaze. 

Upon the cloud-aspiring throne 

Where rests the God of Babylon! 

So shall the God in glory come 

Down to his sumptuous earthly home. 

Hear! Monarch of the Planets I hear — 

And pause upon thy fleet career. 



The Quarter of the Jewish Slaves. 
Imlah, Naomi, Benina. 

BEN I.N A. 

Father! dear Father! said'st thou that our feet 
Shall tread the glittering paths of Sion's hill ; 
And that our lips shall breathe the fragrant airs 
That blow from dewy Hermon, and the fount 
Of Siloe flow in liquid music by us ? 

IMLAH. 

Oh, daughter of captivity, and bom 
To eat the bitter bread of servitude, 
Benina, child of sadness ! — yet the dearer 
Because thou art the joy of desolate hearts 
That have no joy but thee I — what knovvest thou 
Of that fair city, where our Fathers dwelt 
While unforsaken by their God ? 

BENINA. 

My father! 
Have I not seen my mother and thyself 
Sit by the river side, and dwell for ever 
On Salem's glories, and the Temple's pride, 
Till tears have choked your sad though pleasant 

speech ? 
In the deep midnight, when our lords are sleeping, 
I 've seen the Brethren from the willows take 
Their wind-caressed harps, their half-breathed sounds 
Scarce louder than the rippling river's dash 
Around the matted sedge; and still they pour'd 
Their voices down the stream, as though they vvisli'd 
Their songs to pass away to other lands 
Beyond the bounds of their captivity. 
I 've listen'd in an ecstasy of tears, 
Till purer waters seem'd to wander near me, 
And sweeter flowers to bloom beneath my feet. 
And towers of fairer structure to arise 
Under the moonlight ; and I felt the joy 
Of freedom in my light and sportive limbs. 

IMLAIT. 

My sweetest child, and thou that gavcst to me 
This dearest treasure, Naomi, thyself. 
Even as thou wert in virgin loveliness 
My plighted bride, renew'd to tenderest youth! 
I will not say I hope not (though my fears 
And conscience of our ill desert reprove me) 
That God even now prepares the promised hour. 
When Israel shall shake off Assyria's chains, 
And build long-wasted Sion's lovely walls. 
The sands of the appointed years are run ; 



The signs break out, as in the cloudy night 
The stars ; and buried Prophets' voices seem 
As from their graves to cry aloud, and mark 
The hour that labours with our Israel's glory ; 
And, more than all, but yesterday I saw 
The holy Daniel 

NAOMI. 

Daniel ! what of him. 
Dear Imlah ? 

IMLAH. 

Till but lately he was girt 
With sackcloth, with the meagre hue of fasting 
On his sunk cheek, and ashes on his head ; 
When, lo! at once he shook from his grey locks 
The attire of woe, and call'd for wine,- and since 
He hath gone stately through the wondering streets 
With a sad scorn. Amid the heaven-piercing towers, 
Through cool luxurious courts, and in the shade 
Of summer trees that play o'er crystal fountains. 
Me walks, as though he trod o'er moss-grown ruins, 
'Mid the deep desolation of a city 
Already by the almighty wrath laid waste. 
And sometimes doth he gaze upon the clouds. 
As though he recognized the viewless forms 
Of arm'd destroyers in the silent skies. 
And it is said, that at the dead of night 
He hath pour'd forth thy burden, Babylon, 
And loud proclaim'd the bowing down of Bel, 
The spoiling of the spoiler. Even our lords. 
As conscious of God's glory gathering round him, 
Lfjok on him with a silent awe, nor dare 
To check his motion, or reprove his speech. 

NAO.MI. 

Oh, Imlah! shall our buried bones repose 
In our own land ? 

BENINA. 

Speak on, my dearest Father, 
Thy words are like the breezes of the west. 
That breathe of Canaan's honey-flowing land. 

IMLAH. 

My child ! my child ! thy nuptials shall not be 
With song suppress 'd, and dim half curtain'd lamp, 
Stol'n from the observance of our jealous lords, 
As mine and thy fond mother's were. — Who 's here ? 

BENINA. 

'T is Adonijah : he hath heard thee name him, 
And he will see the burning on my cheek. 
And so detect our cause of fond discourse. 

IMLAH. 

I named him not 

BENINA. 

Nay, father, now thou mock'st me. 

IMLAH. 

Alas ! poor deer, thou 'rt deeply stricken! Well — 

It is a noble boy, that dares to fear 

His God, nor makes his youth a privilege 

For license, and intemperate scorn of rule. 

The above. Adonijah. 

LMLAII. 

Whence comest thou, Adonijah, with thy brow 
Elate, and full of pride, that scarce beseems 
A captive? 

396 



BELSHAZZAR. 



387 



ADONIJAH. 

Imlah ! from the dawn of day 
I have been gazing from the walls, and saw 
The Persian reining in his fiery squadrons. 
Like ostriches they swept the sandy plain, 
As though they would outstrip the tardy winds; 
And paused and wheel'd, and through the clouds of 

dust 
That rose around them, as round terrible Angels, 
Their scimitars in silver radiance flash'd. 
Oh, will it ever be, that once again 
The Lord of Hosts will lift the Lion banner 
Of Judah, and her sons go forth to war 
Like Joshua, or like him whose beardless strength 
O'erthrew the giant Philistine! 

BENINA. 

Ah, me ! 
And wouldst thou, Adonijah, seek the war, 
The ruthless, murtherous, and destroying war? 

ADONIJAH. 

Why, yes! nor would Benina love me less 

For bringing home the spoil of God's proud foes, 

To hang within his vindicated Temple. 

BENINA. 

So thou didst bring thyself unharm'd, unchanged, 
Benina were content. 

ADONIJAH. 

Heaven's blessing on thee ! 

IMLAH. 

Hear me, young Adonijah ; thou dost love 
My child : Benina, shall I say, or leave it 
To thine own lips or eloquent eyes to tell. 
How well thou lovest the noble Adonijah? 
But, youth, I seek not to delay thy joy 
With the cold envious prudence of old age, 
That never felt the boiling blood of youth ; 
For if I did, there 's one would chide me here 
For my forgetfulness of hours like these. 

,^ But yet I would not have my daughter vi-ed 
With the sad dowry of a master's stripes; 
I would not, Adonijah, on the eve 
Of our deliverance, that the wanton Gentile 
Should pass his jest on our cold entertainment, 
And all the cheerless joy when captives wed. 
To breed a race, whose sole inheritance 
Shall be their parents' tasks and heavy bondage. 
Our father Jacob served seven tardy years 

' For beauteous Rachel, but I tax not thee 

! With such a weary service. 

ADONIJAH. 

Be they ages. 
So the life beat within this bounding heart, 
The love shall never fail ! 

IMLAH. 

Here 's one would trust thee, 
Youth, should my cautious age be slow. Come hither. 
Thou tender vine, that need'st a noble stem : 
Thou not repinest because I wed thee not 
To this fair elm, until the gentle airs 
Of our own land, and those delicious dews 
That weep like angels' tears of love, o'er all 
The hill of Sion, gladden your sweet union, 
And make you bear your clustering fruits in joy. 
33 2Y 

{ 



So now, enough, thou dost accept the terms ; 
And in the name of him that rules on high, 
I thus betroth the noble Adonijah 
To soft Benina. — 

Now, to him that hears 
The captive's prayer. How long — oh, Lord! — how long 
Shall strangers trample down thy beauteous Sion ? 
How long shall Judah's hymns arise to thee 
On foreign winds, and sad Jerusalem 
On all her hills be desolate and mute? 

God of the Thunder! from whose cloudy seat 

The fiery winds of Desolation flow : 
Father of Vengeance ! that with purple feet. 

Like a full wine-press, tread'st the world below. 
The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay, 
Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey. 
Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way. 

Till thou the guilty land hast seal'd for woe. 

God of the Rainbow ! at whose gracious sign 

The billows of the proud their rage suppress: 
Father of Mercies ! at one word of thine 

An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness! 
And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, 
And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands. 
And marble cities crown the laughing lands, 
And pillar'd temples rise thy name to bless. 

O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke — oh. Lord! 

The chariots, rattled o'er her sunken gate. 
Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword, 

Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; 
And heaps her ivory palaces became. 
Her Princes wore the captive's garb of shame. 
Her Temple sank amid the smouldering flame. 

For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate. 

O'er Judah's land thy rainbow. Lord, shall beam, 

And the sad City lift her crownless head ; 
And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam. 
Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the 
dead. 
The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, 
On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers. 
To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers. 
And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. 

Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand. 

And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves; 
With fetter'd steps we left our pleasant land. 

Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves. 

The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep. 

And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, 

'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep. 

Where the pale willows shade Euphrates' waves. 

The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy ; 

Thy mercy. Lord, shall lead thy children home; 
He that went forth a tender yearling boy, 

Yet. ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come. 
And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear. 
And Hermon's bees their honied stores prepare ; 
And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, 

Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed th' 
irradiate dome. 

397 



388 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Tlie Walls of Babylon. 

Belshazzar in his Chariot, Nitocris, Arioch, Sa- 

BARis, etc. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

For twice three hours our stately cars have roll'd 

Along the broad highway that crowns the walls 

Of mine imperial City, nor complete 

Our circuit by a lonsi and ample space. 

And still our eyes look down on gilded roofs, 

And towers and tem!)les, and the spreading tops 

Of cedar groves, through which the fountains gleam ; 

And every where the countless multitudes, 

Like summer insects in the noontide sun. 

Come forth to bask in our irradiate presence. 

Oh, thou vast Babylon! what mighty hand 
Created thee, and spread tliee o'er the plain 
Capacious as a world ; and girt thee round 
With high tower'd walls, and bound thy gates with 

brass ; 
And taught the indignant river to endure 
Thy bridge of cedar and of palm, high hung 
U|X)n its marble piers? — What voice proclaim'd, 
Amid the silence of the sands, "Arise! 
And be earth'.s wonder ?" Was it not my fathers? 
Yea, mine entombed ancestors awake. 
Their heads uplift upon their marble pillows; 
They claim the glory of thy birth. Thou hunter, 
That didst disdain the quarry of the field. 
Choosing thee out a nobler game of man, 
Nimrod ! and thoii that with unfeminine hand 
Didst lash the coursers of thy batllc-car 
O'er prostrate thrones, and necks of captive kings, 
Semiramis! and thou whose kingly breath 
Was like the desert wind, before its coming 
The people of all earth fell down, and hid 
Their humble faces in the dust! that madest 
The pastime of a summer day t' o'erthrow 
A city, or cast down some ancient throne ; 
Whose voice each ocean shore obey'd, and all 
From sable Kthiopia to the sands 
Of the gold-flowing Indian streams; — oh! thou 
Lord of the htindred thrones, high Nabonasser! 
And thou my father, Merodach ! ye crown'd 
This City with her diadem of towers — 
Wherefore ? — but prescient of Belsliazzar's birth. 
And conscious of your destined son, ye toil'd 
To rear a meet abode. Oh, Babylon ! 
Thou h.ist him now, for whom through ages rose 
Thy sky-exalted towers — for whom yon palace 
KeaT'd its bright domes, and groves of golden spires ; 
In whom, secure of immortality 
Thou stand'st, and consecrate from time and ruin. 
Because thou hast been the dwelling of Belshazzar! 

NITOCRIS. 

I hear thy words: like thine, thy mother's heart 
Swells, oh, my son ! to see thy seat of empire. 
But will the Lf)rd of Babylon endure, 
What in yon plain beneath offends our sight, 
The rebel Persian ? 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Gave we not command, 
To Tartan and to Artamas, to sweep 



Yon tribes away, or ere our car approach'd 
The northern wall ? 

ARIOCH. 

They hasted forth, O King! 
But Tartan came not back, nor Artamas. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Slaves ! did they dare fall off from their allegiance ? 

ARIOCH. 

To the dominion they fell off of him 
That hath th« empire o'er departed souls. 

NITOCRIS. 

Look down ! look down ! where, proud of his light 

conquest, 
The Persian rides — it is the youthful Cyrus ; 
How skilfully he winds through all the ranks 
His steed, in graceful ease, as though he sate 
Upon a firm-set throne, yet every motion 
Obedient to his slack and gentle rein. 
As though one will controll'd the steed and rider; 
Now leaps he down, and holds a brief discourse 
With yon helm'd captain ; like a stooping falcon, 
Now vaults he to the patient courser's back. 
Happy the mother of that noble youth ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Now, by great Bel ! thou dost abuse our patience. 
Is that the rebel king to whom Belshazzar 
Should vail his pride, and stoop to be his foe ; 
Him with the brazen arms, that, dimly bright, 
Scarce boast distinction from the meaner host ? 
Where are his golden attributes of power. 
The glorious ensigns of his sovereignty ; 
The jewel'd diadem, the ivory sceptre, 
The satrap-circled throne, the kneeling hosts ? 

NITOCRIS. 

Dost ask, my son, his marks of sovereignty ? 
The armies that behold his sign, and trust 
Their fate upon the wisdom of his rule, 
Confident of accusiom'd victory ; 
The unconquerable valour, the proud love 
Of danger, and the scorn of silken e^se ; 
The partnership in suffering and in want, 
F'ven with his meanest follower; the disdain 
Of wealth, that wins the spoil but to bestow it, 
Content with the renown of conquering deeds. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

By all our Gods I 

SABARIS. 

Great Queen! it ill beseems 
The lowest of Chaldea's slaves to oppose 
The mother of our king with insolent speech; 
But my bold zeal for him that rules the v^orld 
Has made me dauntless. Is it not heaven's will, 
Written in the eternal course of human things. 
Some kings are born to toil, and some to enjoy ; 
Some to build up the palace domes of power, 
That in their glowing shade their sons may sit 
Transcendent in luxurious ease, as they 
In conquest? 'Tis the privilege of the chosen. 
The mark'd of fale, and favourites of the Gods, 
To find submissive earth deck'd out, a fair 
And summer garden house, for one long age 
Of toilless pleasure, and luxurious revel. 

398 



BELSHAZZAR. 



389 



BELSHAZZAR. 

The slave speaks well : and thee, O, queen Nitocris ! 
This eve will we compel, with gracious violence, 
To own our loftier fate. This sacred eve 
We '11 have an army wide as yon that spreads 
Its tents on the hot sands; and they shall feast 
Around me, all reclined on ivory couches, 
Strew'd with Sidonian purple, and soft webs 
Of Egypt ; fann'd by bright and glittering plumes 
Held in the snowy hands of virgin slaves; 
And o'er their turban'd heads shall lightly wave 
The silken canopies, that softly tremble 
To gales of liquid odour: all the courts 
Shall breathe like groves of cassia and of nard. 
And every paradise of golden fruits, 
The forests and the tributary streams, 
In this one banquet shall e.xhaust their stores 
Of delicates; the swans and Phasian birds, 
, And roes and deer from off a thousand hills, 
Served in the spices of the farthest East. 
And we will feast to dulcimers and lutes, 
And harps and cymbals, and all instruments 
Of rapturous sound, till it shall seem the stars 
Have stoop'd the nearer to our earth, to crown 
Our banquet with their heavenly concert. There, 
Our captains and our counsellors, our wives 
And bright-eyed concubines, through all the palace 
Th' array of splendour shall prolong — while I, 
In state supreme, and glory that shall shame 
The setting sun amid his purple clouds. 
Will on my massy couch of gold recline : 
Then shall thou come, and seeing thy son the orb 
And centre of this radiance, even thyself 
Shalt wonder at thy impious speech, that dared 
To equal aught on earth to great Belshazzar. 
And now, lead on ! — 

T'he above, Benina, Imlah, Adonijah, Priests. 

BENINA. 

Ah, save me ! save me ! 

ARIOCH. 

Peace ! 
Before the king ! — 

BELSHAZZAR. 

What frantic maid is this, 
Thatshrieksand flies, with loose and rending garments, 
And streaming hair ? — And who are these that circle 

her. 
And sing around her ? 

SABARIS. 

Live, O king, for ever! 
Chaldea's priests, that seek this evening's bride 
For mightiest Bel. 

PRIESTS. 

Beauteous damsel ! chosen to meet 
First our wandering heaven-led feet. 
Spotless virgin ! thee alone 
The great God of Babylon, 
From his starry seat above, 
Hath beheld with Wjks of love. 
Bride of him tnat rules the sky ! 
Cast not down thy weeping eye. 



Daughter of the captive race! 
For thine high and blissful place. 
In the heaven-hung chamber laid. 
Many a Babylonian maid 
To the voiceless midnight air, 
Murmurs low her bashful prayer. 
With enamour'd homage see. 
Round and round we circle thee ; 
Round and round each dancing foot 
Gutters to the breathing lute. 

SABARIS. 

Why dost thou struggle thus, fond slave? 

BENIXA. 

My father ! — 
My dearest Adonijah ! speak to him — 
The panting breath swells in my throat, my words 
Can find no utterance, save to thee. 

IMLAH. 

Great king! 
They rend away my child, mine only child ! — 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Peace ! she is borne to serve the God of Babylon : 
And ye should fall, and kiss their garment hems, 
And bless them for the glory that awaits 
The captive maiden 

ADONIJAH. 

Glory ! call ye it, 
To be the lustful prey 

BENINA. 

Sweet youth ! no more. 
Oh, speak not ! — by the love thou bearest me — 
By all our hopes — alas! what hopes have we? — 
Let me endure no sufferings but my own. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Priests, to your office ! — 

BENINA. 

Oh ! no mercy — none — 
Not even in thee, thou wear'st a woman's form. 
But all the cold relentless pride of man — 
Mightiest of queens ! — would I might add most gra- 
cious — 

IMLAH. 

God of our fathers! that alone canst save 

Look down upon this guileless innocent. 

Lo ! pale and fainting, like a wounded fawn 

She hangs upon their arms — death scarce could throw 

A sadder paleness, or more icy torpor. 

Over that form, whose loveliness is now 

Its bane, and stamps it for the worst of misery. 

ADONIJAH. 

Oh, for a Median scimitar! 

ARIOCH. 

What said he? 

BENINA. 

Nought — nought — 

ARIOCH. 

The slave forgets that scourges hang 
Upon our walls — 

IMLAH. 

And we had fondly thought 
The bitter dregs of our captivity 

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Drank out ! Farewell, my child ! thou dost not hear 

me — 
Thou Uest in cold and enviable senselessness, 
And we might almost fear, or hope, that death — 
Compassionate death — had fi-eed thee from their vio- 
lence. 
What now, my child ? 

ADONIJAH. 

Oh, beautiful Benina! 
Why do thy timorous dove-hke eyes awake, 
And glow with scorn ? why dost thou shake away 
The swoon of bashful fear, and stand erect, 
Thou, that didst hang, but now, like a loose woodbine. 
Trailing its beauteous clusters in the dust? 

BENINA. 

Give place, and let me speak unto ray father, 

And to this youth. 

Fierce men ! your care is vain — 
I will not stoop to fly. 

IMLAH. 

My soul is lost 
In wonder ; yet I touch thee once again, 
And that is rapture. 

BENINA. 

Did ye not behold him 
Upon the terrace top ? — the Man of God ! 
The anointed Prophet ! 

IMLAH. 

Daniel ! 

BENINA. 

He whose lips 
Bum with the fire from heaven! I saw him, father: 
Alone he stood, and in his proud compassion 
Look'd down upon this pomp that blazed beneath him. 
As one that sees a stately funeral. 

IMLAH. 

He spoke not ? — 

BENINA. 

No : like words articulate. 
His looks address'd my soul, and said — oh, maid, 
Be of good cheer — and, like a robe of light, 
A rapture fell upon me, and I caught 
Contagious scorn of earthly power; and fear 
And bashful shame are gone, and in the might 
Of God, of Abraham's God, our fathers' God, 
I stand, superior to the insulting heathen. 

BELSIIAZZAR. 

What! wait ye still to lead the Gods their slave. 
And thus delay Belshazzar's course ? 

BENINA. 

Your Gods ! 
Whom I disdain to honour with my dread. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Off with her ! and advance our royal car ; — 
Set forward. — 

[Belshazzar departs with his train. 

BENINA. 

Ye shall need no force to drag me. 
My father! — Adonijah ! — gaze not thus. 
Blaspheming, with your timorous doubts, the arm 
Of the Most High, that waves above mine head 
In silent might unseen ! 



And thou — go on. 
Go on thy stately course — Imperial Lord 
Of golden Babylon ! the scourge that lash'd 
The Nations, from whose mantling cup of pride 
Earth drank, and with the fierce intoxication 
Scoff'd at the enduring heavens. 

Go on, in awe 
And splendour, radiant as the morning star. 
But as the morning star to be cast down 
Into the deep of deeps. Long, long the Lord 
Hath bade his Prophets cry to all the world. 
That Babylon shall cease! Their words of fire 
Flash round my soul, and lighten up the depths 
Of dim futurity ! I hear the voice 
Of the expecting grave I — I hear abroad 
The exultation of unfetter'd earth ! — 
From East to West they lift their trampled necks, 
Th' indignant nations: earth breaks out in scorn; 
The valleys dance and sing; the mountains shake 
Their cedar-crowned tops ! The strangers crowd 
To gaze upon the howling wilderness. 
Where stood the Queen of Nations. Lo ! even now. 
Lazy Euphrates rolls his sullen waves 
Through wastes, and but reflects his own thick reeds. 
I hear the bitterns shriek, the dragons cry ; 
I see the shadow of the midnight owl 
Gliding where now are laughter-echoing palaces ! 
O'er the vast plain I see the mighty tombs 
Of kings, in sad and broken whiteness gleam 
Beneath the o'ergrown cypress — but no tomb 
Bears record, Babylon, of thy last lord; 
Even monuments are silent of Belshazzar! 

PRIEST. 

Still must we hear it? — 

BENINA. 

Yea, ye must ! — the words 
Of God will find a voice in every wind ; 
The stones will speak, the marble walls cry out! 

PRIEST. 

Maid, in Bel's appointed bride 
We must brook the words of pride ; 
Mortal voice may ne'er reprove 
Whom the bright immortals love ; 
Nor hand of mortal violate 
Her, the chosen immortal's mate. 

BENINA. 

Oh, Adonijah ! soothe my mother's tears ; 

Be to my father what I should have been ; 

And now farewell ! Forget not her whose thoughta. 

In terror and in rapture, still will dwell 

On thee : in prayer, at morn and eve, forget not 

Her who will need prayers worthier than her own. 



Before the House of Imlah. 
Imlah, Adonijah. 



LMLAH. 

We are here at length : — we two have glided on 
Like voiceless ghosts, along the crowded streets. 
The miserable pour their tale of anguish 
Into the happy ear, and feel sweet solace 

400 



BELSHAZZAR. 



391 



From his compassion ; but the wretched find 
No comfort from imparling mutual bitterness. 
I know I ought to feel that God protects 
My child — I can but think that heathen arms 
Have torn her from my bleeding heart! I know 
I ought to kindle with the heavenly fire 
Of her rapt spirit, to dauntlessness like hers. 
I can but tremble for her tender loveliness, 
That used to clmg to me for its support, 
Like a soft lily, for the world's rude airs 
Too frail. 

ADONIJAH. 

Scarce dare I speak, lest I speak rashly. 
I have rebuked and struggled with ray sorrow, 
Till I detected in my secret heart 
A proud reproach, that I was born a son 
Of Abraham, to be trampled in the dust 
Like a base worm, that dare not turn to sting 
The insulting foot. 

IMLAH. 

Oh cool decline of day. 
That wert the captive's hour of joy, his tasks 
Fulfill'd, his master's wayward pride worn out. 
How wert thou wont to lead my weary foot 
To such a blissful home ! — I 've oft forgot 
It was a captive's. Naomi, my wife, 
I never fear'd to meet thy loving looks 
Till now. 

The above, Naomi. 

NAOMt. 

So, Imlah, thou 'rt return'd : — and thou, 
My son, I '11 call thee. — Sweet it is I' anticipate, 
And make the fond tongue thus familiar 
With words that it so ofl must use. Stay, stay. 
Beloved ! and I '11 call forth, or ere ye enter. 
My child, whose welcome will be sweeter to you 
Than the cold babbling of her aged mother : — 
I had forgot — she went abroad with you. 

I.MLAH. 

Have mercy. Heaven ! 

NAOMI. 

Now, whither is she gone ? 
To seek for thee the cup of sparkling water 
With which she used to lave thy burning brow ; 
Or gather thee the rosy fruit, that gain'd 
Fresh sweetness to thy taste, from that dear hand 
That offer'd it. She ever thought — though weary 
Herself and wanting food — of ministering 
First to the ease and joy of those she loved. — 
Ha! tears upon thy brow, thy noble brow. 
Which I have seen endure 

IMLAH. 

Go in .'. — no, stay 
Without! I cannot venture where some mark 
Of her fond duty and officious care. 
Will be the first thing mine eyes see. — My wife, 
Why dost thou tear thine hair, and clasp thy brain ? 
1 have not told thee 

NAOMI. 

What hast thou to tell me ? 
Thou 'rt here without her: — thou and this brave youth 
Have eyes that burst with tears. She's lost! — she's dead! 
33* 



IMLAH. 

Would that she were ! 

NAOMI. 

Unnatural father ! wretch. 
Thou hast no touch of human pity in thee. 
To tell a mother thou canst wish her child 
Where her fond arms can never fold her more I — 
Oh, Imlah! Imlah! tell me — tell me all — 
Ye cannot tell me more than what I fear. 

IMLAH. 

They tore her from us, for a paramour 
For their false Gods 

NAO.MI. 

'T is ever thus : — most bless'd 
But to be made most wretched ! 

I.MLAH. 

Pardon her, 
Oh Lord ! oh, we can chide on others' lips. 
What our own burn to utter ! 

NAO.MI. 

All my fare. 
My jealous, vigilant, and restless care. 
To veil her from the eyes of man, to keep her 
Like a sweet violet, that the airs of heaven 
Scarcely detect in its secluded shade. 
All waste and vain! I was so proud, to think 
I had coneeal'd our treasure from the knowledge 
Of our rude masters — and I thought how envied 
I should return among our barren mothers. 
To Salem. 

IMLAH. 

Dearest ! she beheld — she felt 
The arm of Israel's God protecting her. 
Thou canst not think with what a beauteous scorn 
Our soft and timorous child o'erawed the spoiler — 
How nobly she reproved our fears. 

NA0.MI. 

Poor fool ! 
To be deluded by those tender arts 
She ever used — her only arts — to spare 
Our bleeding hearts from knowing when she suffer'd. 
What! she look'd fearless, did she? She in the arms 
Of sinful men, that trembled at heaven's airs. 
When they came breathing o'er her blushing cheek. 
And ye — thou, Adonijah, that dost know 
Her timorous nature, wert deceived ? — cold comfort ! 
Have ye no better ? 

IMLAH. 

Oh, weep ! weep, my wife ! 
Look not upon me with those stony eyes! 
Oh, think — the cup is bitter, but the Lord 
May change it; — think of him that lost so many, 
His sons and daughters, at their jocund feast. 
All at one blow — and said — God gave, and God 
Hath taken away.* 

NAOMI. 

Had he but one, like ours ; 
One that engross'd his undivided love; 
One such as ne'er before blest human heart, 
Would he have said so ? 



♦Job i, 21. 



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MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Wilt not tell me, loo, 
How Sarah in her old age bore a child. 
To be a joy within her desolate house. 
Go on — go on — recount each act of love. 
Each merciful miracle, that we may know 
How gracious God hath been to all — but us. 

IMLAH. 

Hear her not, God of Israel ! — oh, my son ! 

We must distract this frenzy, or 't will blight 

Heaven's hoped for blessings to a barren curse. 

And intercept some soft descending mercy. 

What shall we do? — what say? — to dissipate 

Her brooding thoughts? We'll take the harps that 

hang 
Around us, and are used to feel the hand 
Of sorrow trembling on their mournful strings. 
When ye demand sweet Sion's songs to mock them. 
Proud strangers, our right hands forget their cunning. 
But ye revenge you, wringing from our hearis 
Sounds that might melt your senseless stones to pity. 

HVSI.\. 

Oh, thou that wilt not break the bruised reed, 
Nor heap fresh ashes on the mourner's brow, 

Nor rend anew the wounds that inly bleed. 
The only balm of our afflictions thou. 

Teach us to bear thy chastening wrath, oh God ! 

To kiss with quivering lips — still humbly kiss thy rod ! 

We bless thee. Lord, though ftr from Judah's land ; 
Though our worn limbs are black with stripes and 
chains ; 
Though for stern foes we till the burning sand ; 
And reap, for others' joy, the summer plains ; 
We bless thee. Lord, for thou art gracious still. 
Even though this last black drop o'erflow our cup 
of ill! 

We bless thee for our lost, our beauteous child ; 

The tears, less bitter, she hath made us weep; 
The weary hours her graceful sports have 'guiled. 

And the dull cares her voice hath sung to sleep ! 
She was the dove of hope to our lorn ark ; 
The only star that made the strangers' sky less dark ! 

Our dove is fall'n into the spoiler's net; 

Rude hands defile her plumes, so chastely white ; 
To the bereaved their one soft star is set, 

And all above is sullen, cheerless night! 
But still we thank thee for our transient bliss — 
Yet, Lord, to scourge our sins remain'd noway butthis? 

As when our Father to Mount Moriah led 

The blessing's heir, his age's hope and joy, 
Pleased, as he roam'd along with dancing tread. 

Chid his slow sire, the fond, officious boy, 
And laugh'd in sjxirt to see the yellow fire 
Climb up the lurl-built shrine, his destined funeral 

pyre- 
Even thus our joyous child went lightly on; 

Bashfully sportive, timorously gay. 
Her white foot bounded from the pavement stone 

Like some light bird from off the quiv'ring sprny ; 



And back she glanced, and smiled, in blameless glee, 
The cars, and helms, and spears, and mystic dance 
to see. 

By thee, O Lord, the gracious voice was sent 
That bade the Sire his murtherous task forego: 

When to his home the child of Abraham went 
His mother's tears had scarce begun to flow. 

Alas! and lurks there, in the thicket's shade, 

The victim to replace our lost, devoted maid ? 

Lord, even through thee to hope were now too bold ; 

Yet 't were to doubt thy mercy to despair. 
'T is anguish, yet 't is comfort, faint and cold. 

To think how sad we are, how blest we were ! 
To speak of her is wretchedness, and yet 
It were a grief more deep and bitterer to forget ! 

O Lord our God ! why was she e'er our own ? 

Why is she not our own — oiir treasure still ? 
We could have pass'd our heavy years alone. 

Alas! is this to bow us to ihy will? 
Ah! even our humblest prayers we make repine. 
Nor prostrate thus on earth, our hearts to thee resign. 

Forgive, forgive — even should our full hearts break, 
The broken heart thou wilt not. Lord, despise: 

Ah ! thou art still too gracious to forsake. 
Though ihy strong hand so heavily chasti.se. 

Hear all our prayers, hear not our murmurs, Lord ; 

And, though our lips rebel, still make thyself adored. 



The Front of the Temple. 

PRIKSTS WITHIN. 

Hark ! what dancing footsteps fall 
Light before the Temple wall? 
Who are ye that seek to pass 
Through the burnish'd gate of brass? 
Come ye with the gifts of Kings, 
With the peacock's bright-eyed wings? 
With the myrrh and fragrant spice? 
With the spotless sacrifice ? 
With the spoils of conquer'd lands? 
With the works of maidens' hands. 
O'er the glittering loom that run. 
Underneath the orient sun ? 
Bring ye pearl, or choicest gem, 
From a plunder'd diadem ? 
Ivory viand, or ebony 
From the sable Indian tree ? 
Purple from the Tyrian shore; 
Amber ciip, or coral store. 
From the branching trees that grow 
Under the salt sea-water's flow ? 

PRIESTS, WITH BENINA. 

With a fairer gift we come 
To the God's majestic home 
Than the pearls the rich shells weep 
In the Erythrean deep. 
All our store of ebony 
Sparkles in her radiant eye. 
Whiter far her spotle.ss skin 
Than the gauzy vestures thin, 

402 



BELSHAZZAR. 



393 



Bleach'd upon the shores of Nile ; 
Grows around no palmy isle 
Coral like her swelling lips, 
Whence the gale its sweetness sips, 
That upon the spice-tree blown 
Seems a fragrance all its own ; 
Never yet so fair a maid 
On the bridal couch was laid ; 
Never form beseem'd so well 
The immortal arms of Bel. 

PRIESTS, LEADING HER IN. 

'Mid the dashing fountains cool. 
In the marble vestibule, 
Where the orange branches play, 
Freshen'd by the silver spray, 
Ileaven-led virgin, take thy rest. 
While we bear the silken vest 
And the purple robe of pride 
Meet for Bel's expected bride. 

ALL THE PRIESTS. 

Bridelike now she stands array'd ! 
Welcome, welcome, dark-hair'd maid ! 
Lead her in, with dancing feet. 
Lead her in, with music sweet. 
With the cymbals' glancing round, 
And the hautboy's silver sound. 
See the golden gates expand. 
And the Priests, on either hand, 
On their faces prone they fall 
Entering the refulgent Hall. 
With the tread that suits thy state, 
Glowing cheek, and look elate. 
With thine high unbending brow, 
Sacred maiden, enter thou. 

FIRST PRIEST. 

Chosen of Bel, thou stand's! within the Temple, 

Within the first and lowest of our Halls, 

Yet not least sumptuous. On the jasper pavement, 

Each in his deep alcove, Chaldea's Kings 

Stand on their carved pedestals. Behold them ! 

Their marble brows still wear the conscious awe 

Of sovereignty — the mightiest of the dead. 

As of the living. Eminent, in the centre. 

The golden statue (5) stands of Nabonassar, 

That in the plain of Dura, to the sound 

Of harp, and lute, and dulcnner, received 

The homage of the world. The Scythian hills, 

The margin of the Syrian sea, the Isles 

Of Ocean, their adoring tribes cast down ; 

And the high sun, at noonday, saw no face 

Of all mankind turn'd upward from the dust, 

Save the imperial brow of Nabonassar, 

That rose in lonely loftiness, as now 

Yon awe-crown'd image. 

BENINA. 

Have ye wrought him too, 
As when he prowl'd the plain, th' associate 
Of the brute herd that browsed around, nor own'd 
The dread of a superior presence, beat 
By the uncourtly rains and vsintry winds 
UiJon the undiadem'd head ? 



PRIEST. 

Cease, cease, nor tempt 
The loving patience of the God too far! 
Advance ! and wind along the aspiring stair. 

PRIESTS. 

Haste ! the fading light of day 
Scarce will gild our lofty way. 
Haste, nor tremble, tender maid! 
To the sculptur'd balustrade 
Cling not thus with snowy hand ; 
None but slaves around thee stand. 
On thy footsteps proud to wait : 
Hark ! the slow-recoiling gate 
Opens at our trumpets' call; 
Enter now, our second Hall. 

SECOND PRIEST. 

Well mayst thou hold thine alabaster hand. 
Through which the rosy light so softly shines. 
Before thine eyes, oh ! maiden, as thou enterest 
The Chamber of the Tribute. Here thou seest 
The wealth of all the subject world, piled up 
In order — from its multitude that seems 
Confusion : in each deep, receding vault. 
O'er all the spacious pavement, 't is the same ; 
The flaming gold, and ivory, and the gems — 
If all mankind were Kings, enough to crown 
Each brow with an imperial diadem! 

BENINA. 

Oh, rapt Isaiah, were they not thy words — 
How hath she ceased — the golden city ceased ! 
Will all that wealth but ransom thee an hour. 
Or bribe the impartial and undazzled Ruin 
One instant to suspend its swooping wing ? 

PRIESTS. 

Breathe again the clear blue air; 
Mount again the marble stair: 
Still we motmt — on high — on high, 
To the exulting harmony! 
Hark! the strain of triumph rings 
In the Hall of Captive Kings. 

THIRD PRIEST. 

Now pause again : yon chained images 
Are those that ruled the world, or ere the Lord 
Of great Chaldea took the all-rulmg sceptre 
Into his iron hand, and laid the pride 
Of all the kingdoms prostrate at his feet. 

BENINA. 

O King of Judah, thou art there! Thy foes, 

In charitable cruelty, did quench 

Thy sightless eyes, lest thou shouldst see the dwelling 

Which thou hadst changed for Sion's beauteous hill ; 

Lest thou shouldst more than hear thy sorrowing 

people 
Doom'd by thy sins, and by their own, to bondage. 
Thou, Zedekiah, (6) didst desert thy God, 
And wert of God deserted ; — nor to thee 
Is given, withdrawn into a foreign grave. 
To feel again soft Canaan's fragrant gales 
On thy blind brow, almost persuading thee 

403 



394 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That, in thy darkness, thou canst still behold 
Some once-loved spot, or dim-remember'd scene. 
The glad deliverance that comes to Judah 
Comes not to thee. Alas ! to sad Benina, 
Oh, gracious God of Abraham, will it come ? 

PRIESTS. 

Maid, again we lift the song; 
Thy soft feet have rested long; 
Nearer, nearer as we climb 
To the highest Hall sublime, 
Bride of the Immortal, thee 
All the city throngs to see. 
Floating, like a snowy dove. 
In the azure clouds above. 
Lo! the fourth of our abodes. 
Chamber of the captive Gods! 

BENINA. 

Oh, Lord of Hosts! I dare not gaze around me, 
Lest in yon heaps of monstrous forms uncouth 
The scaly Dagon and the brute Osiris, 
Moon-crown'd .\starte, or the Sun-like Mithra, 
Some shape I should behold by the blind Gentile 
Held worthy to enclose Ih' Illimitable 
That fills the Heaven and Earth. The Cherubim, 
Perchance, are here, behind whose golden wings 
Thy fiery presence dvvelt, but dwells no more. 
I know that danger waits me on yon height, 
But thither haste I rather than behold 
Profaning Heathens scorn what thou hast glorified. 
Lead on 

PRIESTS. 

Half thy journey now is past; 
Who shall wonder at thine haste : — 
Dost not wish for wings to fly 
To thy blissful destiny ? 
Yet, oh tread with footstep light 
As the falling dews of night; 
Like the gliding serpent creep 
Where the gifled Dreamers sleep; 
Fold thou close thy fluttering dress, 
Even thy panting breath suppress. 
Lest some glorious dream we break : — 
1,0 ! 't is vain — they move — they wake ! 

THE DREAMERS. 

Hark! hark! the foot — we hear the trembling foot, 
With motion like the dying wind upon a silver lute: 
Upon our sleep it came, as soft itself as sleep; 
It shone upon our visions like a star upon the deep. 

Lo! lo! the form, the graceful form we see 

That seem'd, through all the live-long night, before 
our eyes to be : 

Above, the eyes of sparkling jet, the brow like mar- 
ble fair ; 

And down, and o'er the snowy breast, the dark and 
wandering hair. 

Hark ! hark ! the song — we hear the bridal song — 
Amid the listening stars it flows the sounding heavens 

along! 
It follows the Immortal down from his empyreal sky. 
Descending to his mortal bride in full divinity! 



BENINA. 

What ! are your dreams so soft ; and saw ye nought 

Of midnight flames, that clomb the palace walls. 

And ran along the terrace colonnades. 

And pour'd the liquid walls in torrent flames 

Of dark asphaltus? — Heard ye not the wail 

Of wounded men, and shrieks of flying women; 

And the carved Gods dash'd down in cumbrous ruin 

On their own shrines ? 

PRIESTS. 

Great Bel avert the omen! 

PRIESTS. 

Hurry en, nor more delay; 
Shadows darken on our way; 
Only in the hall we tread ; 
Ask of those the stars that read, 
Catching every influence 
Their all-ruling orbs dispense. 
From those silent Prophets bright 
That adorn the vault of night. 
Watchers of the starry sky. 
Know ye, feel ye, who is nigh? 

ASTROLOGERS. 

What planet lolls its pearly car. 

What orb of mild or angry hue ? 
The star of love, the silver star, 

Glides lonely through yon depth of blue. 
We see her sailing motion calm ; 

We hear the music of her sound ; 
We drink Mylitta's (7) breathing balm. 

In odorous clouds distill'd around. 
And calm, and musical, and sweet 

Is she that star's mild influence leads — 
The maid that, with her snowy feet. 

Even now the sacred pavement treads. 

BENINA. 

Enough of this! Oh! chaste and quiet stars. 
And pure, as all things from infecting Earth 
Removed, and near the throne of God ; whose calm 
And beautiful obedience to the laws 
Of your great Maker is a mute reproach 
To the unruly courses of this world. 
Would they debase you to the ministers 
And guilty favourers of their sinful purpose ? 

PRIESTS. 

Now our toil is all but done; 
Now the height is all but won ; 
By the High Priest's lonely seat. 
By Kalassan's still retreat. 
Where, in many a brazen fold. 
The slumbering Dragon lies outroll'd, 
Pa.ss we on, nor pause. Nor thou 
Gaze, oh Priest, with wondering brow ! 
Lovelier though her cheek appears 
For her toil and for her tears ; 
And the bosom's vest beneath 
Heaves the quick and panting breath. 

KALASSAN. 

More beautiful ne'er trod our marble stairs! 

PRIESTS. 

None! — but still the maid dismiss 
To her place of destined bliss : — 
404 



BELSHAZZAR. 



395 



That no mortal eye may see — 
On ! we may not follow thee ; 
Only with our music sweet 
We pursue thy mounting feet. 
Now, upon the topmost height, 
Thou art lost to mortal sight! 
Lo! the couch beside thee spread. 
Where the Heaven-loved maids are wed. 
Till the bridal midnight deep 
Bow thy head in balmy sleep — 
Sleep that shall be sweetly broken 
When the God his bride hath woken. 

BENINA. 

Alone! alone upon this giddy height! 
Yet, better thus than by that frantic rout 
Encircled : yet a while, and I shall breathe 
With freedom. Oh ! thou cool, delicious silence, 
How grateful art thou to the ears that ring 
With that wild music's turbulent dissonance ! 

By slow degrees the starlight face of things 
Grows clear around my misty, swimming eyes. 
Oh, Babylon ! how art thou spread beneath me ! 
Like some wide plain, with rich pavilions set 
'Mid the dark umbrage of a summer grove. 
Like a small rivulet, that from bank to bank 
Is ruffled by the sailmg cygnet's breast, 
Euphrates seems to wind. Oh ! thou vast city. 
Thus dwindled to our human sight, what art thou 
To Him that from his throne, above the skies, 
Beyond the circuit of the golden Sun, 
Views all the subject world ! 

The parting day 
To twilight and the few faint early stars 
Hath left the city. On yon western lake 
A momentary gleam is lingering still. 
Thou 'rt purpling now, O Sun, the vines of Canaan, 
And crowning, with rich light, the cedar top 
Of Lebanon, where but oh ! without their daugh- 
ter — 
Soon my sad parents shall return. Where are ye, 
Beloved ? I seek in vain the lonely light 
Of our dear cabin on Euphrates' side. 
Amid yon kindling fires. And have ye quench'd it, 
That all your dwelling be as darkly sad 
As are your childless hearts? — And thou — mine own, 
I thought this morn, and called thee — Adonijah, 
Art thou, loo, thinking of that hour like this; 
The balmy, tranquil, and scarce starlight hour. 
When the soft Moon had sent her harbinger. 
Pale Silence, to foreshow her coming presence; 
To hush the winds, and smooth the clouds before her? 
That hour, that, with delicious treachery, stole 
The secret from Benina's lips she long'd. 
From her full heart, t' unburthen ? Better, now, 
Had it been buried in eternal darkness. 
Than thus have kindled hopes that shone so softly — 
Were quench'd so soon, so utterly. — 

Fond heart, 
These soft, desponding, yet delightful thoughts, 
Must not dissolve thee to mistrust in him 
That fill'd thee as with fire, and touch'd my lips 
With holy scorn of all the wealth and pride 
2Z 



That blazed around my path. Even now I feel 
My trembling foot more firm; and, like the eagle's, 

Mine eyes familiar with their cloudy height 

What 's here ? — a hurried tread 

What art thou ? speak ! 

KALASSAN. 

The honour'd of the God that honours thee. 
Oh, miracle of beauty! I beheld thee. 
And strove with my impatient spirit within 
To wait th' appointed hour ; but, as the pilgrim 
Sees the white fountain in the palmy shade. 
Nor brooks delay, even thus my thirsty eyes 
Demand their instant feast. 

BENINA. 

Thou shouldst have brought 
The sage Diviners to unfold the meaning 
Of this dark language. 

KALASSAN. 

Loveliest bashfulness! 
Or is it but the sportive ignorance 
That laughs beneath the dark and glittering eyelids. 
At the delighted dupe of its dissembling? 

BENINA. 

Peace, and avaunt ! 

KALASSAN. 

O maid ! thou art so beauteous 
That yon bright Moon is rising, all in haste, 
To gaze on thee, or to display thy grace 
To him, that, lost in wonder, scarce hath melted 
To love. 

The snowy light falls where she treads, 
As 't were a sacred place ! in her loose locks 
It wanders, even as with a sense of pleasure ! 
And trembles on her bosom, that hath caught 
Its gentle restlessness, and trembles, too. 
Harmonious. 

BENINA. 

Must mine ears endure thee still? 

KALASSAN. 

And know'st thou not why thou art here; what bliss, 
What bridal rapture wails thee? 

BENINA. 

There are sins 
Whose very dread infects the virgin's soul. 
Tainting the fountain of her secret thoughts; 
I 'm here to suffer evil — what, I know not, 
But will remain in holy ignorance, 
Till my dark hour of trial. 

KALASSAN. 

Hast thou never. 
Soft maid, when fervid noon bathes all the world 
In silence, in thy fiind and wandering thoughts. 
Beheld a noble bridegroom seated near thee. 
And heard him, 'mid sweet falls of marriage music, 
Whispering what made thy pale cheek burn? 

BENINA. 

Away I— 
And must he see my tears ? and think me weak, 
And of my God abandon'd ! 

KALASSAN. 

Lo ! the couch 
Bestrewn with flowers, whose fragrance and whose 
hues 

405 



396 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Shall not have faded, till great Bel come down 
Beneath that dimly canopied alcove 

BENINA. 

There 's that withia thy words I ought to fear : 
' But it should seem, that with the earth I 've left 
All earthly fears beneath me. I defy 
Thee and thy Gods alike. 

KALASSAN. 

Alike in truth; 
For sometimes doth the Mightiest not disdain 
To veil his glories in a mortal shape, 
Even great Kalassan's. Look on me, and say 
If he could choose a nobler. 

BENINA. 

What ! and fear'st not 
Thine own false Gods — thou worse than Idol wor- 
shipper ? 
Why even the senseless wood and stone might wake 
To indignation, and their fiery vengeance 
Break forth from Heaven. Alas ! and what have they. 
Whose name thou dost usurp to cloke thy sin, 
To do with Heaven more than thy loathsome self? 

KALASSAN. 

Thine eyes, albeit so full of scorn, survey not 
My form in vain. I tell thee, Maid, I tread 
This earth so conscious that the best of Deity, 
The power and majesty reside within me, 
That I but stoop to win myself a bride 
Beneath another name : here 'mid the clouds 
I stand, as in mine own appropriate place. 

BENINA. 

The darkest pit of Tophet were too light 
For thine offence. 

KALASSAN. 

Oh ! soft and musical voice, 
Art thou so lavish of injurious words? 
Erewhile thou 'It be as prodigal of fondness ; 
So now prepare thee : ere two hours are past 
Thou wedd'st Kalassan, or Kalassan's God, 
Or both, or either, which thou wilt. Farewell 
A little while : but I beseech thee, wear 
When I return this soft becoming pride; 
Nor imitate, as yet, the amorous slaves 
That weary with officious tenderness. 
Be as thou seem'st, a kindred spirit with mine, 
And we will mate like eagles in the Heavens, 
And give our children an immortal heritage 
To bathe their plumage in the fiery sun. 

BENINA (alone). 
Did the earth bear thee, monster ! or art thou 
Th' Eternal Enemy in the human shape? 
Oh ! 't is the innocent's best security. 
That the unrighteous pluck the thunderbolt 
With such resistless violence on their heads. 
Lord of the insulted Heavens! thou canst not strike 
This impious man, without delivering me; 
Me, else unworthy of thy gracious mercy. 

But lo ! what blaze of light beneath me spreads 
O'er the wide city. Like yon galaxy 
Above mine head, each long and spacious street 
Becomes a line of silver light, the trees 
In all their silent avenues break out 



In flowers of fire. But chief around the Palace 

Whitens the glowing splendour; every court 

That lay in misty dimness indistinct. 

Is traced by pillars and high architraves 

Of crystal lamps that tremble in the wind : 

Each portal arch gleams like an earthly rainbow, 

And o'er the front spreads one entablature 

Of living gems of every hue, so bright 

That the pale Moon, in virgin modesty. 

Retreating from the dazzling and the tumult. 

Afar upon the distant plain reposes 

Her unambitious beams, or on the bosom 

Of the blue river, ere it reach the walls. 

Hark ! too, the sounds of revelry and song 

Upon the pinions of the breeze come up 

Even to this height. No eye is closed in sleep; 

None in vast Babylon but wakes to joy — 

None — none is sad and desolate but I. 

Yet over all, I know not whence or how, 

A dim oppression loads the air, and sounds 

As of vast wings do somewhere seem to brood 

And hover on the winds; and I that most 

Should tremble for myself, the appointed prey 

Of sin, am bnw'd, as with enforced compassion. 

To think on sorrows not mine own, to weep 

O'er those whose laughter and whose song upbraids 

My prodigality of misspent pity. 

I will go rest, if rest it may be call'd — 

Not, Adonijah — not to think of thee. 

Oh ! bear a brief unwilling banishment 

From thine own home, my heart ; I cannot cope 

With thy subduing image, and be strong. 



CHORUS OF BABYLONIANS BEFORE THE PALACE- 

Awake ! awake ! put on thy garb of pride, 
Array thee like a sumptuous royal bride, 

O festal Babylon! 

Lady, whose ivory throne 
Is by the side of many azure waters ! 
In floating dance, like birds upon the wing. 
Send tinkling forth thy silver-sandal'd daughters; 

Send in the solemn march. 

Beneath each portal arch. 
Thy rich-robed lords to crowd the banquet of their 
King. 

They come! they come from both the illumined shores; 
Down each long street the lestive tumult pours; 

Along the waters dark 

Shoots many a gleaming bark. 
Like stars along the midnight welkin flashing. 
And galleys, with their masts enwreath'd with light. 
From their quick oars the kindling waters dashing; 

In one long moving line 

Along the bridge they shine. 
And with their glad disturbance wake the peaceful 
night. 

Hang forth, hang forth, in all your avenues, 
The arching lamps of more than rainbow hues. 

Oh ! gardens of delight ! 

With the cool airs of night 

406 



BELSHAZZAR. 



397 



Are lightly waved your silver-foliaged trees, 
The deep-embower'd yet glowing blaze prolong 
Height above height the lofty terraces 

Seeing this new day-breaii, 

The nestling birds awake, 
The nightingale hath hush'd her sweet untimely song. 

Lift up, lift up your golden-valved doors, 
Spread to the glittering dance your marble floors. 

Palace ! whose spacious halls. 

And far-receding walls. 
Are hung with purple like the morning skies; 
And all the living luxuries of sound 
Pour from the long outstretching galleries ; 

Down every colonnade 

The sumptuous board is laid, 
With golden cups and lamps and bossy chargers 
crown'd. 

They haste, they haste ! the high-crown'd rulers stand. 
Each with his sceptre in his kingly hand ; 

The bearded Elders sage. 

Though pale with thought and age ; 
Those through whose bounteous and unfailing hands 
The tributary streams of treasure flow 
From the rich bounds of earth's remotest lands ; 

All but the pomp and pride 

Of batlle laid aside, 
Chaldea's Captains stand in many a glittering row. 

They glide, they glide ! each, like an antelope, 
Bounding in beauty on a sunny slope, 

With full and speaking eyes, 

And graceful necks that rise 
O'er snowy bosoms in their emulous pride, 
The chosen of earth's choicest loveliness ; 
Some with the veil thrown timidly aside, 

Some boastful and elate 

In their majestic state 
Whose bridal bed Belshazzar's self hath deign'd to 
bless. 

Come forth ! come forth ! and crown the peerless feast. 
Thou whose high birthright was the effulgent east I 

On ih' ivory seat alone, 

Monarch of Babylon ! 
Survey the interminable wilderness 
Of splendour, stretching far beyond the sight ; 
Nought but thy presence wants there now to bless; 

The music waits for thee, 

Its fount of harmony. 
Transcending glory tliou of this thrice-glorious night ! 

Behold ! behold I each gem-crown'd forehead proud. 
And every plume and crested helm is bow'd. 

Each high-arch'd vault along 

Breaks out the blaze of song, 
Belshazzar comes! nor Bel, when he returns 
From riding on his stormy thunder-cloud. 
To where his bright celestial palace burns, 

Alights with loftier tread. 

More full of stately dread. 
While under his fix'd feet the loaded skies are bow'd. 



The Hall of Banquet. 

CHORUS. 

Mightiest of the sons of man ! 
The lion in his forest lair, 
The eagle in the fields of air. 
Amid the tumbling waves Leviathan, 
In power without or peer or mate, 
Hold their inviolable state : 
Alone Belshazzar stands on earth. 
Pre-eminent o'er all of human birth, 
Mightiest of the sons of man ! 

Richest of the sons of man ! 
For thee the mountains teem with gold, 
The spicy groves their bloom unfold. 
The bird of beauty bears its feathery fan. 
And amber paves the yellow seas. 
And spread the branching coral-trees, 
JVor shrouds the mine its deepest gem, 
Ambitious to adorn Belshazzar's diadem, 
Richest of the sons of man ! 

Fairest of the sons of man! 

Tall as the cedar towers thine head, 

And fleet and terrible thy tread. 
As the strong coursers in the bailie's van; 

An Eden blooms upon thy liice; 

Like music, thy majestic grace 

Holds the mute gazer's breath suppress'd, 
And makes a tumult in the wondering breast. 

Fairest of the sons of man ! 

Noblest of the sons of man ! 
The first a kingly rule that won, 
Wide as the journey of the sun. 

From INimrod thine high-sceptred race began ; 
And gathering splendour still, went down 
From sire to son the eternal crown, 
Till full on great Belshazzar's crest 

lis high meridian glory shone confest, — 
Noblest of the sons of man I 

Happiest of the sons of man ! 

In wine, in revel, and in joy 

Was softly nursed the imperial buy ; 
His golden years like Indian rivers ran, 

And every rapturous hour surpast 

The glowing rapture of the last, 

Even till the plenitude of bliss 
Did overflow and centre all in this, 

Happiest ol' the sons of man I 

SABARIS. 

Peace! peace! the king vouchsafes his gracious speech. 

Sit ye like statues silent! ye have (luafT'd 

The liipiid gladness of the blood-red wine, 

And ye have eaten of the golden fruits 

That the sun ripens but for kingly lips, 

And now ye are about to feast your ears 

With great Belshazzar's voice. 

AKiOCH. 

The crowded hall 
Suspense, and prescient of the coming joy. 
Is silent as the cloudless summer skies. 

407 



398 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



BELSHAZZAR. 

Oh ye, assembled Babylon! fair youths 

And hoary Elders, Warriors, Counsellors, 

And bright-eyed Women, down my festal board 

Reclining! oh ye thousand living men. 

Do ye not hold your charter'd breath from me ? 

And I can plunge your souls in wine and joy ; 

Or by a word, a look, dismiss you all 

To darkness and to shame ; yet, are ye not 

Proud of the slavery that thus enthrals you ? 

What king, what ruler over subject man 

Or was, or is, or shall be like Belshazzar! 

I summon from their graves the sceptred dead 

Of elder days, to see their shame. I cry 

Unto the cloudy Past, unfold the thrones 

That glorified the younger world : I call 

To the dim Future — lift thy veil and show 

The destined lords of human kind : they rise. 

They bow their veil'd heads to the dust, and own 

The throne whereon Chaldea's Monarch sits. 

The height and pinnacle of human glory. 

Oh Ancient Cities, o'er whose streets the grass 
Is green, whose name hath wither'd from the face 
Of earth ! Oh ye by rich o'erflowing Nile, 
Memphis, and hundred-gated Thebes — and thou, 
Assyrian Nineveh, and ye golden lowers 
That redden o'er the Indian streams, what are ye 
To Babylon — Eternal Babylon ! 
That's girt with bulwarks strong as adamant. 
O'er whom Euphrates' restless waves keep watch, 
That, like the high and everlasting Heavens, 
Grows old, yet not less glorious ? Yes, to you 
1 turn, oh azure-curtain'd palaces ! 
Whose lamps are stars, whose music, the sweet motion 
Of your own spheres, in whom the banqueters 
Are Gods, nor fear my Babylonian halls 
Even with your splendours to compare. 

Bring wine ! 
I see your souls as jocund as mine own : 
Pour in yon vessels of the Hebrews' God 
Belshazzar's beverage — pour it high. Hear, earth! 

Hear, Heaven! my proud defiance ! Oh, what a 

man. 
What God 

SABARIS, AND MANY VOICES. 

The king ! the king ! look to the king ! 
Aniocn. 
Where ? I can see nor king nor people — nothing 
But a bewildering, red, and gloom-iike light 
That swallows up the fiery canopy 
Of lamps. 

SABARIS. 

Hath blindness smitten thee ? 

ARIOCH. 

I know not ; 
But all things swim around me in a darkness 
That dazzles 

SABARIS. 

See, his shuddering joints are loosen'd, 
And his knees smite each other : such a face 
Is seen in tombs : — what means it ? 



ARIOCH. 

See'st not thou 
That taunted'st me but now — upon the wall 
There — there — it moves — 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Oh dark and bodiless hand. 
What art thou — thus upon my palace wall 
Gliding in shadowy, slow, gigantic blackness ? 
Lo ! fiery letters, where it moves, break out : 
'Tis there — 'tis gone : — 'tis there again — no, nought 
But those strange characters of flame, that burn 
Upon the unkindled wall : — I cannot read them — 
Can ye ? 

I see your quivering lips that speak not — 
Sabaris — Arioch — Captains — Elders — all 
As pale and horror-stricken as myself! 

Are there no wiser? Call ye forth the Dreamers, 
And those that read the stars, and every priest, 
And he that shall interpret best shall wear 
The scarlet robe and chain of gold, and sit 
Third ruler of my realm. Away! — No— leave me not 
To gaze alone ; — alone, on those pale signs 
Of destiny — the unextinguishable, 

The indelible Strew, strew my couch where best 

I may behold what sears my burning eyeballs 
To gaze on — and the cold blood round my heart 
To stand, like snow. No — ache mine eyes, and quiver 
My palsied limbs — I cannot turn away — 
Here am I bound as by thrice-linked brass, 
Here, till the burthen of mine ignorance 
Be from my loaded soul taken ofi; in silence 
Deep as the midnight round a place of tombs. 



Tke Summit of the Temple. 

BENINA. 

How long, O Lord ! how long must I endure 
This restlessness of danger ? — I have wish'd 
That even the worst were come, I am so sick 
And weary with suspense : I have sate and gazed 
Upon the silent moon, as she pursued 
Her journey to yon blue celestial height. 
Pilgrim of Heaven ! the white translucent clouds, 
Through which she wanders, fall away, nor leave 
A taint upon her spotless orb: Shall I, 
O Lord ! emerge in purity as stainless 
From the dark clouds that dim mine earthly course? 
And sometimes as a whispering sound came up, 
Though but the voice of some light breathing wind 
Along the stair, I felt my trembling heart, 
And I grew guilty of a timorous doubt 
In Him, whose guardian hand is o'er me. 

Hark! 
Hark ! all around — above — beneath — it bursts, 

The long deep roll ol^ in yon cloudless skies: 

It cannot be God's thunder, and the fires. 

Blue as the sulphurous lightning, rise from earth, 

Not Heaven. Oh madly impious ! dare ye thus 

Mimic the all-destroying arras that rage 

Against the guilty ? the vast temple shakes, 

.And all the clouded atmosphere is red 

With the hell-born tempest — like to rushing chariots 

Upon a stony way, like some vast forest 

408 



BELSHAZZAR. 



399 



Ablaze with a heaven-kindled conflagration, 

It comes, it comes — as in a tent of clouds, 

Bent at each moment by the flashing light. 

The gloom rolls back— it bursts. Speak! — who art 

thou, 
Whose robes are woven as from the starry Heavens? 
What means that sceptre, and the wreaths, like mist, 
That turban thy dusk brow ? — I know thee now — 
I see it grow into a hideous likeness — 
Kalassan ! 

KALASSAN. 

Oh most sweet humility, 
That doth disdain the modest palliation 
Of being a Deity's enforced bride ; 
Her fond detection pierces every veil. 
And springs in raptures to her mortal lover. 

BENINA. 

Oh can I wonder that thou dost belie 

The innocent helpless virgin, when thy falsehood 

Aspires with frantic blasphemy t' attaint 

The immaculate Heavens ? 

KALASSAN. 

Roll on! I say, roll on 
My bridal music ! the ear-stunning tambour — 
Blaze forth my marriage fires ! 

BENINA. 

Avaunt ! — My cries 

KALASSAN. 

Thy cries ! Thou mightst as well, on Taurus' brow 
Call to the shipman on the Caspian Sea! 
See'st thou how far thou art from earth ? 

BENINA. 

See'st thou 
How near to Heaven ? 

KALASSAN. 

To Heaven ! behold the stars 
Pierce not the cool pavilion, where soft Darkness, 
Our handmaid, hangs her nuptial canopy. 
At times illumin'd by the flashing light 
That loves to linger on thy kindling beaiity. 

BENINA. 

'T is as he says ! — nor sound, nor gleam of succour — 

Thy bride— oh, Adonijah !— ah, no bride 

Of thine! — lost— lost to thee— would 'twere by death! 

Is 't for the sin of loving thee too fondly 

I am deserted !— Spare me, Man of Terror, 

And prayers for thee (they say, God loves the prayers 

Of the undefiled) shall rise as constantly 

As summer-dews at eve. 

KALASSAN. 

Now louder! louder! 
Let there be triumph in your martial sounds. 

BENINA. 

Oh God ! oh God! I have condemn'd myself. 
And fallen from the faith. Ah, not for me! 
For thine own glory suffer not the Heathen 

To boast of Ha!— all silence, and all gloom — 

I tremble — but he trembles too 

KALASSAN. 

With wrath ! 
Slaves, wherefore have ye quench'd mine earthly 

light. 
And still'd my storm? 

34 



VOICE BELOW. 

Kalassan ! 

KALASSAN. 



Slaves ! 
Kalassan ! 



Thou'rt call'd- 



VOICE. 

Kalassan ! to Belshazzar's presence 
We are summon'd : — Priest, Diviner, Seer, thyself; — 
If Ihou delay'st, stern Arioch's sword must sever 
The di.sobedient head ! 

BENINA. 

With tears, not words, 
I bless thee, Lord ! 

KALASSAN. 

Is this thy God? 

BENINA. 

My God, 
In his omnipotence, doth make the wrath 
Of hurricanes and desolating fires 
His ministers — why not the brealh of Kings ? 

KALASSAN. 

The hour will come in which to tame thy scorn! 

BENINA. 

The hour is come that frees me from thy presence : 
Haste, haste 

VOICE. 

Kalassan ! 

KALASSAN. 

Slaves ! I come. 

BENINA. 

Away! 

Thou 'It pardon me my fond solicitude. 
Impatient of thy lingering. 

KALASSAN. 

Fare thee well 
Till I return. 

BENINA. 

Till thou return 'st He 's gone! 

I did not think that I could hear his tread, 

His angry tread, with such a deep delight. 

Oh! my fond parents! when we meet again. 

We shall not meet with strange, averted looks : 

Ye will not, in sad pity, take me back 

A shamed and blighted child to your cold bosoms. 

And thou, betrolh'd, beloved — I shall endure 

To stand before thy face, nor wish the earth 

To shroud me from thine unreproaching gaze ; 

For were I all I fear'd, thou hadst ne'er reproach'd 

me ! 
And oh, sweet Siloe ! oh, my fathers' land ! 
Land where the feet may wander where they will — 
Land where the heart may love without a fear ! 
I feel that I shall tread thee ; for the Lord 
Pours not his mercies in a sparing measure. 
This is the earnest of his love— the seal 
With which he marks us for his own, his blest. 
His ransom'd ! Oh ! fair Zion, lif\ thou up 
Thy crown, that glitters to the morning Sun! 
They come— thy lost, thy banish'd children come — 
And thy streets rise to sounds of melody ! 

409 



400 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The Hail of Banquet, with the Fiery Letters on the 
Wall. 

ARIOCH. 

Hath the King spoken? 

SAEARIS. 

Not a word : as now, 
He hath sate, with eyes that strive to grow famihar 
With those red characters of fire : but still 
The agony of terror halh not pass'd 
From his chill frame. But, if a word, a step, 
A motion, from those multitudes reclined 
Down each long festal hoard ; the bursting string 
Of some shrill instrument ; or even the wind. 
Whispering amid the plumes and shaking lamps, 
Disturb him — by some mute, imperious gesture, 
Or by his brow's stern anger, he commands 
All the vast halls to silence. 

ARIOCH. 

Peace! he hears 
Our murmur'd speech. 

SABARIS. 

JVo. 

ARIOCH. 

Did ye not observe him, 
When his hand fell upon the all-ruling sceptre. 
The bitter and self-mocking laugh that pass'd 
O'er his pale cheek? 

SABARIS. 

His lips move, but he speaks not.' 
All still again 

ARIOCH. 

They are here : — the Priests and Seers; 
Their snowy garments sweep the Hall. 

SABARIS. 

Behold ! 
He motions them to advance and to retreat 
At once — and pants, yet shudders, to demand 
Their answer. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Oh ! Chaldea's worshipp'd Sages — 
Oh! men of wisdom, that have pass'd your years — 
Your long and quiet, solitary years. 
In tracing the dim sources of th' events 
That agitate this world of man — oh! ye 
That in the tongues of every clime discourse ; 
Ye that hold converse with the eternal stars. 
And in their calm prophetic courses, read 
The destinies of empires; ye whose dreams 
Are throng'd with the predestined images 
Of things that are to be ; to whom the Fates 
Unfold their secret councils ; to whose sight 
The darkness of Futurity withdraws. 
And one vast Present fills all Time — behold 
Yon burning characters ! and read, and say 
Why the dark Destinies have hung their sentence 
Thus visible to the sight, but to the mind 
Unsearchable ? — Ye have heard the rich reward ; 
And I but wail to see whose neck shall wear 

The chain of glory 

Ha ! each pale fallen lip 
Voiceless! and each upon the other turns 
His wan and questioning looks. Kalassan! thou 



Art like the rest, and gazest on thy fellows 

In blank and sullen ignorance. — Spurn them forth! 

Ye wise ! ye learned ! ye with Fate's mysteries 

Entrusted! Spurn, I say, and trample on ihera! 

Let them be outcast to the scorn of slaves ! 

Let children pluck their beards, and every voice 

Hoot at them as they pass! 

Despair! Despair! 
This is thy palace now ! JVo throne, no couch 
Beseems the King, whose doom is on his walls 
Emblazed — yet whose vast empire finds not one 
Whose faithful love can show its mystic import! 
Low on the dust, upon the pavement stone, 
Belshazzar takes his rest! — Ye hosts of slaves, 
Behold your King! the Lord of Babylon ! — 
Speak not — for he that speaks, in other words 
But to expound those fiery characters, 
Shall ne'er speak more ! 

NITOCRls {entering^ 

As thou didst give command, 
My son, I 'm here to see the all-glorious feast 
That shames the earth, and copes with Heaven ! 

Great Powers! 
Is 't thus 1 Oh ! look not with that mute reproach, 
More terrible than anger, on thy mother! 
Oh, pardon my rash taunts! — my son ! my son! 
Thou art but now the beauteous, smiling child, 
That from my bosom drank the flowing life ; 
By whom I 've pass'd so many sleepless nights 
In deeper joy than slumber e'er could give ! 
The sole refreshment of my weary spirit 
To gaze on thee ! — Alas! 'twas all my crime: — 
I gave to thy young lips the mantling cup 
Of luxury and pride; I taught thee first 
That the wide earth was made for thee, and man 
Born for thy uses ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Find me who will read it. 
And thou wilt give me, then, a life more precious 
Than that I once received of thee. 

NITOCRIS. 

'Twas he; 
I saw him as I pass'd along the courts, 
The Hebrew, that, when visions of the night 
Shook the imperial soul of Nabonassar, 
Like one to whom the dimly-peopled realms 
Of sleep were clear as the bright noontide Heavens, 
Spake 

BELSHAZZAR. 

With the speed of lightning call him hither. 
No more, my mother — till he comes, no more. 

ARIOCH. 

King of the world, he 's here. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Not yet! not yet! 
Delay him! hold him back ! — My soul 's not strung 
To the dire knowledge. 

Up the voiceless hall 
He moves ; nor doth the white and ashen fear, 
That pamts all faces, change one line of his. 
Audacious slave! walks he erect and firm. 
When kings are grovelling on the earth? — Give 
place ! 

410 



BELSHAZZAR. 



4ai 



Why do ye crowd around him ? Back ! I say. 
Is your king heard — or hath he ceased to rule ? 

NITOCRIS. 

Alas! my son, fear levels kings and slaves 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Art thou that Daniel of the Hebrew race, 

In whom the excellence of wisdom dwells 

As in the Gods ? I have heard thy fame ; — behold 

Yon mystic letters, flaming on the wall, 

That, in the darkness of their fateful import, 

Baffle the wisest of Chaldea's sages ! 

Read, and interpret; and the satrap robe 

Of scarlet shall invest thy limbs ; the chain 

Of gold adorn thy neck ; and all the world 

Own thee third ruler of Chaldea's realm ! 

DANIEL. 

Belshazzar, be thy gifts unto thyself. 
And thy rewards to others. I, the servant 
Of God, will read God's writing to the King. 
The Lord of Hosts to thy great Ancestor, 
To Nabonassar, gave the all-ruling sceptre 
O'er all the nations, kingdoms, languages ; 
Lord paramount of life and death, he slew 
Where'er he will'd ; and where he will'd men lived ; 
His word exalted, and his word debased ; 
And so his heart swell'd up ; and, in its pride. 
Arose to Heaven ! But then the Lord of earth 
Became an outcast from ihe sons of men — 
Companion of the browsing beasts! the dews 
Of night fell cold upon his crownless brow. 
And the wild asses of the desert fed 
Round their unenvied peer! And so he knew 
That God is Sovereign o'er earth's sceptred Lords. 
But thou, his son, unwarn'd, untaught, untamed, 
Belshazzar, hast'arisen against the Lord, 
And in the vessels of his house hast quaflTd 
Profane libations, 'mid thy slaves and women, 
To gods of gold, and stone, and wood ; and laugh'd 
The King of Kings, the God of Gods, to scorn. 
Now hear the words, and hear their secret meaning — 
"Number'd!" twice "Number'd! Weigh'd! Divi- 
ded !" King, 
Thy reign is number'd, and thyself art weigh'd. 
And wanting in the balance, and thy realm 
Sever'd, and to the conquering Persian given ! 

ARIOCH. 

What vengeance will he wreak ? The pit of lions — 
The stake 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Go — lead the Hebrew forth, array 'd 
In the proud robe, let all the city hail 
The honour'd of Belshazzar. Oh ! not long 
Will that imperial name command your awe ! 
And, oh ! ye bright and festal halls, whose vaults 
Were full of sweet sounds as the summer groves. 
Must ye be changed for chambers, where no tone 
Of music sounds, nor melody of harp, 
Or lute, or woman's melting voice? — My mother! — 
And how shall we two meet the coming ruin ? 
In arms ! thou say'st ; but with what arms, to front 
The Invisible, that in the silent air 
Wars on us ? Shall we seek some place of silence, 



Where the cold cypress shades our Fathers' torobs. 
And grow familiar with the abode of Death ? 

And yet how calm, how fragrant, how serene 
The night! — When empires fall, and Fate thrusts 

down 
The monarchs from their ancient thrones, 'tis said, 
The red stars meet, with ominous, hostile fires ; 
And the dark vault of Heaven flames all across 
With meteors ; and the conscious earth is rock'd ; 
And foaming rivers burst their shores ! But now, 
Save in my soul, there is no prescient dread : — 
Nought but my fear-struck brow is dark and sad. 
All sleeps in moonlight silence : ye can wave, 
Oh happy gardens ! in the cool night airs 
Your playful branches; ye can rise to Heaven, 
And glitter, my unconscious palace-towers; 
No gliding hand, no Prophet's voice, to you 
Hath rent the veil that hides the awful future! 
Well, we '11 go rest once more on kingly couches. 
My mother, and we '11 wake and feel that earth 
Still trembles at our nod, and see the slaves 
Reading their fate in our imperial looks ! 

And then — and then Ye Gods! that I had still 

Nought but my shuddering and distracting fears ; 

That those dread letters might resume once more 

Their dark and unintelligible brightness ; 

Or that 't were o'er, and I and Babylon 

Were — what a few short days or hours will make us 



Above the Cily. 

THE DESTROYING ANGEL. 

The hour is come ! the hour is come ! With voice 

Heard in thy inmost soul, I summon thee, 

Cyrus, the Lord's anointed ! And thou River, 

That flow'st exulting in thy proud approach 

To Babylon, beneath whose shadowy walls 

And brazen gates, and gilded palaces. 

And groves, that gleam with marble obelisks. 

Thy azure bosom shall repose, with lights 

Fretted and chequer'd like the starry heavens: 

I do arrest thee in thy stalely course. 

By Him that pour'd thee from thine ancient fountain, 

And sent thee forth, even at the birth of Time, 

One of his holy streams, to lave the mounts 

Of Paradise. Thou hear'st me : thou dost check 

Abrupt thy waters, as the Arab chief 

His headlong squadrons. Where the unobserved 

Yet toiling Persian breaks the ruining mound, 

I see thee gather thy tumultuous strength ; 

And, through the deep and roaring Naharmalcha, (8) 

Roll on, as proudly conscious of fulfilling 

The Omnipotent command ! While, far away, 

The lake, that slept but now so calm, nor moved 

Save by the rippling moonshine, heaves on high 

Its foaming surface, like a whirlpool gulf. 

And boils and whitens with the unwonted tide. 

But silent as thy billovxs used to flow, 
And terrible the hosts of Elam move. 
Winding their darksome way profound, where man 
Ne'er trod, nor light e'er shone, nor air from Heav'n 
Breathed. Oh! ye secret and unfathom'd depths, 

411 



402 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



How are ye now a smooth and royal way 

For th' army of God's vengeance ! Fellow slaves. 

And ministers of the Eternal purpose, 

Not guided by the treacherous injured sons 

Of Babylon, but by my migiilier arm. 

Ye come, and spread your banners, and display 

Your glittering arms as ye advance, all while 

Beneath th' admiring moon. Come on ! the gates* 

Are open — not for banqueters in blood 

Like you ! — I see on either side o'erflow 

The living deluge of arm'd men, and cry 

Begin, begin, with fire and sword begin 

The work of wrath. Upon my shadowy wings 

I pause and float a little while to see 

Mine human instruments fulfil my task 

Of final rum. Then I mount, I fly, 

And sing my proud song, as I ride the clouds. 

That stars may hear, and all the hosts of worlds. 

That live along the interminable space, 

Take up Jehovah's everlasting triumph ! 



The Streets of Babylon. 
Adonuah, Imlah. 
adonijah. 
Imlah ! this way he motion 'd me to pass. 

IMLAH. 

My son! (alas ! I ever call thee son, 

Though my old childless heart but bleeds the more 

At that fond name,) the broad Euphrates lies 

That way, nor boat nor bark is wont to moor 

By that inhospitable pier ; he meant 

Toward the Temple — that way leads not thither. 

ADONIJAH. 

Father, the Lord will make a way, where'er 
His Prophets do direct our feet. Thou saw'st not 
As I ; they led him at the king's command 
Along the streets, in scarlet clad, and made 
Their trumpets clamour, and their voices shout 
Before great Daniel ; but it seem'd he mark'd 
Nor trumpet sound, nor voice of man : the garb, 
Th' array, the triumph touch'd not him : he held 
A strange, elate, and voiceless intercourse 
With some dark being in the clouds ; for now 
I saw him, as the torches shone upon him — 
His brow like some crown'd warrior's, when his hosts 
Are spreading, in their arm'd magnificence, 
Over a conquer'd realm ; and now he seem'd 
To count impatient the slow time; and now 
He look'd, where in the distant darkness rose 
The Temple, now where still the palace shone 
With its rich festal light, as though he vvatch'd 
And listen'd for some earthquake to o'erthrow them. 
His ominous looks were terrible with ruin ; 
The majesty of God's triumphant vengeance 
Was in his tread : even thus the Patriarch look'd, 
When, mounting in his ark, he saw the deluge 
Come sweeping o'er the doom'd yet heedless world. 
Something, be sure, the hand of God prepares 
To rescue, to revenge. 

IMLAH. 

Too late! too late! 
Ob that last night! 



ADONIJAH. 

My father! 

IMLAH. 

Thou art right; 
'T was rashly, madly spoken — but my spirit 
Is wrung almost to find a deadly pleasure 
In madly uttering what the heart abhors. 
I '11 on with thee. 

ADONIJAH. 

He motion'd me alone. 

IMLAII. 

He did — nnd he must be obey'd : farewell. 
Dear youth — dear son ! if thou shouldst meet with her 
Cast forth in scorn, and groveling on the earth, 
Chide her not, Adonijah — speak not to her, 
Lest thy compassion seem to mock her shame : 
But, pray thee, lead her to the old man's home — 
To the old man's heart, that will not love her less, 
Though his love have less of pride and more of sor- 
row. 
Farewell, and prosper! 

I '11 go wander on 
Through the dusk streets. Poor Naomi ! I lefl thee, 
Thy wretchedness had wrought its own relief, 
Asleep. Oh thou, if thou shouldst never wake, 
Thrice bless'd. Beloved, I should mourn for thee. 
But envy while I moum'd. 

Great King of vengeance, 
God of my fathers ! thou art here at length. 
Behold ! behold ! from every street the flames 
Burst out, and armed men, proud conquering men, 
Move in the blaze they 've kjndled to destroy. 
Are ye the avenging Spirits of the Lord, 
Descended on the blast, and clouding o'er 
The Heavens, as ye come down, with that red cope 
Deeper than lightning? No— it is the Mede, 
The ravaging, the slaughtering, merciless Mede, 
This way they fly, with shrieks, and clashing arms. 
And multitudes that choke th' impassable streets, 
Till the fierce conqueror hew his ruthless way. 
Shall not I fly ? and wherefore ? Oh ! waste on 
And burn, triumphant stranger! trample down 

Master and slave alike ! there is one house 

Thou canst not make more desolate : thou canst not 

Pour ills on any of these guilty roofs. 

So hateful as have burst on mine. Who comes ? 

NiTOCRis, Imlah. 

NITOCRIS. 

My son ! my son ! I heard the cries — I saw 
The flames ; I rush'd through all the shrieking palace 
To seek him — and I found him not ; and sprang 
To find him, where I thought not, where I knew not. 
One moment do I plunge into the gloom 
Of some dark court, to shun the foe— the next, 
I bless the angry and destroying light. 
Because I think it may disclose the face, 
The beauteous face of mine Imperial Boy. 
I've pass'd by widows, and by frantic mothers, 
That howl and tear tiieir hair o'er their dead chil- 
dren : 
I cannot find my child, even to perform 
That last sad duty of my love — to mourn him. 

412 



r 



BELSHAZZAR. 



403 



I 've cried aloud, and told them I 'm their queen ; 

They gaze on me, and mock me with their pity, 

Showing that queens can be as desolate 

As slaves : and sometimes have I paused and stoop'd 

O'er dying faces, with a hideous hope 

Of seeing my son ! I dare not cry Belshazzar, 

Lest he should hear me, and come forth and meet 

The slaughtering sword. Ye Gods ! his very beauty 

And majesty will mark him out for slaughter: 

And the fierce Persian, that in weary pride 

May scorn to flesh his sword on meaner heads, 

Will win himself an everlasting glory. 

By slaying th' unarm'd, the succourless Belshazzar. 

Here's one — hast seen him ? Slave, I'll give thee gold, 

I'll give thee kingdoms ah! what gold or kingdoms 

Hath the sad queen of captive Babylon 
To give ? but thou hast haply known the love 
That parents bear to those who have been a part 
Of their own selves, whose lives are twined with theirs 
So subtly, that 't were worse than death to part them. 
Hast seen the king — my son — the pride of kings — 
My peerless son ? 

IMLAIT. 

I had a child this morn. 
Beautiful as the doe upon the mountains. 
Pure as the crystal of the brook she drinks ; 
And when they rent her from her father's heart. 

To death oh no! — to deeper woe than death. 

The queen of Babylon swept proudly by. 
Nor stoop'd to waste her pity on the childless. 

NITOCRIS. 

Oh ye just Gods I but cruel in your justice ! 
And never met ye more ? 

IMLAH. 

No more ! 

NITOCRIS. 

Great Heaven ! 
I own your equal hand : the bitter chalice 
That we have given to others' lips, our own 
Must to the dregs drink out. So, never more 
Shall I behold thee — not to wind thy corpse — 
To pour sweet ointments on thy clay-cold limbs. 
Alas! and what did Nabonassar's daughter 
In the dark streets alone? when there were men 
To rally, arms to array — my voice, my look. 
The hereditary terror that is said 
To dwell on mine imperial brow, had pour'd 
Dismay and flight upon the conquering Mede. 
Semiramis, for empire, cast away 
The woman, and went forth in brazen arms. 
I could not for my son ! 

My naked feet 
Bleed where I move; and on my crownless head 
(For what have I to do with crowns ?) beat cold 
The chilling elements ; till but now I felt not 
My loose, and thin, and insufficient raiment. 
Well, there 's enough to shroud the dead ; and thee 
To colder nakedness, my son ! ray son ! 
The spoiler will have stripp'd 

IMLAH. 

God pardon me 
For taunting her distress! Rest here, oh queen ! 
Under this low and wretched roof thou art safe ; 
34 * 3 A 



The plunderer wars upon the gilded palace. 
Not the base hovel. There 's a mother there 
As sad as thou, and sleep may be as merciful 
To thee as her. 

NITOCRIS. 

Sleep! sleep! with Babylon 
In flames around me ; Nabonassar's realm. 
The city of earth's sovereigns rushing down. 
The pride of countless ages, and the glory. 
By generations of triumphant kings 
Rear'd up — my sire's, my husband's, and my son's, 
And mine own stately birth-place perishing: 
The summer gardens of my joy cut down ; 
The ivory chambers of my luxury, 
Where I was wed, and bore my beauteous son, 
Howl'd through by strangers! No — I 'II on, and find 
Death or my son, or both ! My glorious city ! 
My old ancestral throne! thou 'It still afford 
A burial fire. I 've lived a queen, the daughter 
Of kings, the wife, the mother — and will die 
Quqen-like, with Babylon for my funeral pile ! 



Before the Temple, 

EEMNA. 

Oh thou dread night! what new and awful signs 

Crowd thy portentous hours, so calm in heav'n. 

With all thy stars and fuU-orb'd moon serene 

Sleeping on crystal and pellucid clouds! 

How terrible on earth ! as I riish'd down 

The vacant stair, nor heard a living .sound. 

Save mine own bounding footstep, all at once 

Methought Euphrates' rolling waters sank 

Into the earth; the gilded galleys rock'd. 

And plunged and settled in the sandy depths; 

And the tall bridge upon its lengthening pier 

Seem'd to bestride a dark, unfathom'd gulf 

Then, where blue waters and the ivory decks 

Of royal vessels, and their silver prows. 

Reflected the bright lights of heav'n, they shone 

Upon the glancing armour, helms, and spears 

Of a vast army : then the stone-paved walls 

Rang with the weight of chariots, and the gates 

Of brass fell down with ponderous clang : then sank 

O'er the vast city one sepulchral silence. 

As though the wondering conqueror scarce believed 

His easy triumph. But ye revellers 

That lay at rest upon your festal garments, 

The pleasant weariness of wine and joy. 

And the sweet dreams of your scarce-ended pleasures. 

Still hanging o'er your silken couches! ye 

Woke only, if ye woke indeed, to see 

The Median scimitar that, red with blood, 

Flash'd o'er you, or the blaze of fire that wrapt 

In sulphurous folds the chambers of your rest. 

Oh Lord of Hosts! in thine avenging hour 

How dreadful art thou ! Pardon if I weep 

When all my grateful heart should beat with joy 

For my deliverance. 

Kalassan, Benina. 
k a lass an. 

All is lost! Great Bel, 
Thus, thus dost thou avenge thy broken rite ! 

413 



404 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Now, by thy thunders, 'tis the beauteous bride — 
Thou givest her to me yet. 

BEMXA. 

Miscreant ! what mean'st thou ? 

KALASSAN. 

'T was love before; and now 'tis love and ven- 
geance ; 
And I will quaff the doubly-mantling cup, 
In all its richness. 

BENINA. 

Guilty man! look round. 
Thou seest my God, the God of Gods, reveal'd 
In yon wide fires ! Nor thou, nor one of those 
That walk the death-doom'd streets of Babylon, 
Have even an hour to live. 

KALASSAN. 

» Then I 've no hour 

To waste. 'T is said the Indian widows mount 
In pride and joy their husbands' fimeral pyres ; 
Thou, in thy deep devotion, shall excel them. 
And wed thy bridegroom for the loftier glory 
Of dying by his side. 

BENINA. 

Oh mercy ! 

KALASSAN. 

Mercy ! 
Ask of the Babylonian maids and wives, 
If they find mercy ? 

BF.NINA. 

Ah ! and I presumed 
To speak of pitying others ! 

KALASSAN. 

Come What's here? 

Kalassan, Benina, Adonuah. 

adonijah. 
With unwet foot I trod the river's depth: 
It is the privilege of Israel's sons 
To walk through seas as on dry land. 

BENINA. 

Oh stranger! 

That bear'st a Persian scimitar No stranger! 

Is it his angel, with his beauteous brow ? 

His eyes, his voice — his clasping arms around me I — 

Mine own, my brave, my noble Adonijah! 

Too bounteous Heaven ! 

KALASSAN. 

Fond slave ! unclasp thine arms. 

ADONIJAH. 

What — must I rob the Persian of his victim ? 
Oh ! not in vain this bright and welcome steel 
Glitter'd to court my grasp! What! tlie first foe 
My warrior arm hath met retreat before me ? 
I '11 follow thee to earth's remotest verge. 

BEMNA. 

Oh ! I could shriek, and weary Heaven with cries 
For my sad self — lor thee — for thee ! My lips 
Are parch'd to silence; and my throat — Come back! 
Their swords clash — some one falls — and groans : — 

he calls not 
Upon the God of Israel. — Ila ! perchance 
He cannot cry! All's dark. — Ah me ! how strong, 
How dreadful was the Heathen in his strength ! 



He's here! — I dare not ask, which art thou? which — 
Alas, prophetic spirit hast thou left me 
To ask ? Oh Love ! thou used to know his tread 
'Mong thousands ! 

ADONUAH. 

Sweet ! where art thou ? 

BEMNA. 

On ihy bosom. 

ADONIJAH. 

The Lord hath triumph'd by his servant's hands : 
He lies in death, blaspheming his own Gods. 

BEMNA. 

Merciful! I almost thank thee for the dread 
And danger of this night, that closes thus 
In such o'erpowering joy ! 

ADONIJAH. 

Hast suffer'd nought 
But dread and danger? ^ 

BEXINA. 

What ? 

ADONIJAH. 

Thou 'st been where evil 
Riots uncheck'd, untamed ! 

BENINA. 

Oh Adonijah! 
I have endured thy lip upon my cheek. 
And I endure thine arras clasp'd fondly round me. 
And on thy bosom I recline, and look 
Upon thy face with eyes suffused with tears, 
But not of shame. What would 'st thou more ? 

ADONIJAH. 

Nought, nought, 
Oh pardon that my jealous fears misdoubted 
Thy pure, thy proud, thy holy love ! Come on ! 
Come to thy parents' home that wait for tiiee. 
And change thy voiceless house of desolation 
To an abode of joy, as mute. 

Come! come ! 
Beauteous as her that with her timbrel pass'd 
Along the Red Sea depths, and cast her song — 
Upon the free airs of the wilderness — 
The song of joy, of triumph, of deliverance ! 



The Streets of Babylon inflames. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

I cannot fight nor fly : where'er I move, 
On shadowy battlement, or cloud of smoke. 
That dark unbodied hand waves to and fro. 
And marshals me the way to death — to death 
That still eludes me. Every blazing wall 
Breaks out in those red characters of fate ; 
And when I raised my sword to war, methought 
That dark-stoled Prophet stood between, and seem'd 
Rebuking Heaven for its slow consummation 
Of his dire words. 

I am alone : my slaves 
Fled at the first wild outcry ; and my women 
Closed all their doors against me — for they knew me 
Mark'd with the seal of destiny : no hand. 
Though I have sued for water, holds a cup 
To my parch'd lips ; no voice, as I pass on, 

414 



BELSHAZZAR. 



405 



Hath bless'd me; from the very festal garments, 
That glitter'd in my halls, they shake the dust: 
Ev'n the priests spurn'd me, as abhorr'd of Heaven. 
Oh ! but the fiery Mede dolh v^-ell avenge me ! 
They're strew'd beneath my feet — though not in 

worship! 
Oh death ! death ! death ! that art so swift to seize 
The conqueror on his triumph day, the bride 
Ere yet her wedding lamps have waned, the king 
Where all mankind are kneeling al his footstool — 
Thou 'rt only slow to him that knows himself 
Thy fated prey, that seeks within the tomb 
A dark retreat from wretchedness and shame. 
From shame I — the heir of A'abonassar's glory ! 
From wretchedness I — the Lord of Babylon — 
Of golden and luxurious Babylon ! 
Alas! through burning Babylon ! the fallen, 
The city of lamentation and of slaughter! 
A fugitive and outcast, that can find, 
Of all his realm, not even a grave I — so base, 
That even the conquering Mede disdains to slay him! 



Before the House of Imlah. 
IsiLAH, Adonijah, Benina, Naomi. 

IMLAH. 

Naomi I Naomi ! look forth — she 's here ! 

NAO.MI. 

I know she is — in dreams: through all the night 
I 've seen her, gliding from the fountain side 
With the pure urn of water, or with lips 
Apart, and bashful voice, that faintly breathed 
One of her country's songs ! I 've seen her kneeling 
In prayer, alas ! that ne'er was heard on high ! 
And thou hast scared my vision's joys away — 

To see — all heav'n on fire, and the vast city 

Imlah ! what mean those massy clouds of smoke, 

Those shrieks and clashings? and — that youth 

and maid. 
Why stand they there ? we need no sad remembran- 
cers 
Of our deep desolation ! 

BENINA. 

Doth my mother 
With such cold salutation welcome home 
Her child ? 

NAOMI. 

No! no ! ye can no more delude me ! 
Twice have I woken, and heard that voice, and 

stretch'd 
My arms 

BENINA. 

But hast not folded to thy bosom, 
As thus, thy child, thy lost, thy loved Benina ! 

NAOMI. 

'Tis living flesh ! it is a breathing lip! 
And the heart swells like — Oh no! — not like mine! 
Oh ! thou twice born ! the sorrow and the joy 
That I endured to bring my beauteous babe 
Into the world were nought to this ! 

BENINA. 

Dear mother, 
May I ne'er cost thee bitterer tears than these 



IMLAH. 

My Father's God, thou show'dst thyself of old. 

By smiting water from the stony rock, 

And raining manna on the desert sands! 

Here is thy best — most gracious miracle! 

Making the childless heart to laugh with gladness; 

The eyes that had forgot to weep o'erflow 

With tears delicious! Thou hast raised the dead. 

And to the widow given her shrouded child ! 

But what was that pale boy to her that stands 

So beautiful before us ? What was death 

To her dark trial ? And she 's here — and life 

Bounds in her bosom — the young doves that erst. 

Ere yet the cold airs soil'd their snowy plumes. 

Were ofler'd in thy Temple not so pure! 

NAOMI. 

How earnest thou hither ? 

BENINA. 

Ask of him that led me — ■ 
Of him — that all but I seem to have forgotten. 

ADONIJAH. 

Love, I shall take a sweet revenge hereafter, 
Resuming to myself the boon that now 
They have no time to thank me for — What 's he. 
That rushes where proud War disdains to spoil? 
That tread was wont to move in marble halls. 
To sounds of music. Round his limbs, that shake 
And quiver, as with pain, he wraps his robes. 
Like one men viont to gaze on. Even despair 
On such a brow looks noble ! — Hark ! he speaks 

Tfie above, Belshazzar. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

'Tis come at last! the barbed arrow drinks 

My life-blood. 'Mid the base abode of slaves 

I seem to stand : not here — my fathers set 

Like suns in glory ! I '11 not perish here, 

And stifle like some vile, forgotten lamp! 

Oh, dreadful God ! is't not enough? — My stale 

I equall'd with the Heavens— and wilt thou trample 

me 
Beneath these — What are ye that crowd around me ? 
I have a dim remembrance of your forms 
And voices. Are ye not the slaves that stood 
This morn before me! and 

IMLAH. 

Thou spurn'dst us from thee. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

And ye '11 revenge you on the day-cold corpse. 

IMLAH. 

Fear not: our God, and this world's cruel usage. 
Have taught us early what kings learn too late. 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Ye know me, then — ye know the King of Babylon — 

The King of dust and ashes ? for what else 

Is now the beauteous city — earth's delight ? 

.\nd what the King himself but — dust and ashes? 

BENINA. 

He faints— support him, dearest Adonijah! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Mine eyes are heavy, and a swoon, a sleep 
Swims o'er my head : — go, summon me the lutes. 
That used to soothe me to my balmiest slumbers ; 

415 



406 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And bid the snowy-handed maidens fan 

The dull, hot air around me. Tis not well — 

This bed — 't is hard and damp. I gave command 

I would not lie but on the softest plumes 

That the birds bear. Slaves! hear ye not? — 'tis 

cold — 
'Tis piercing cold 

BENINA. 

Alas! he 's little used 
To feel the night winds on his naked brow: 
He's breathing still — spread o'er him that bright 

mantle; 
A strange, sad use for robes of sovereignty. 

The above, Nitocris. 

NITOCRIS. 

Why should I pass street after street, through flames 
That make the hardy conqueror shrink; and stride 
O'er heaps of dying, that look up and wonder 
To see a living and unwounded being? 
Oh! mercifully cruel, they do slay 
The child and mother with one blow ! the bride 
And bridegroom ! I alone am spared, to die 
Remote from all — from him with whom I've cher- 

ish'd 
A desperate hope to mingle my cold ashes ! 
'Tis all the daughter of great Nabonassar 
Hath now to ask ! — I '11 sit me down and listen, 
And through that turbulent din of clattering steel, 
And cries of murder'd men, and smouldering houses, 
And th' answering trumpets of the Mede and Persian, 
Summoning their bands to some new work of slaugh- 
ter. 
Anon one universal cry of triumph 
Will burst; and all the city, either host, 
In mute and breathless admiration, lie 
To hear the o'erpowering clamour that announces 
Belshazzar slain ! — and then I '11 rise and rush 
To that dread place — they '11 let me weep or die 
Upon his corpse! — Old man, thou'st found thy child? 

IMLAH. 

I have — I have — and thine. Oh ! rise not thus, 
In thy majestic joy, as though to mount 
Earth's throne again. Behold the King! 

NITOCRIS. 

My son ! 
On the cold earth — not there, but on my bosom — 
Alas! that's colder still. My beauteous boy, 
Look up and see 

BELSHAZZAR. 

I can see nought — all 's darkness ! 

NITOCRIS. 

Too true : he '11 die, and will not know me ! Son ! 

Thy mother speaks — thy only kindred flesh, 

That loved thee ere thou wert; and, when thou 'rt 

gone. 
Will love thee still the more ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Have dying kings 
Lovers or kindred? Hence! disturb me not. 

NITOCRIS. 

Shall I disturb thee, crouching by thy side 
To die with thee ? Oh! how he used to turn 



And nestle his young cheek in this full bosom, 
That now he shrinks from ! No! it is the last 
Convulsive shudder of cold death. My son. 
Wait — wait, and I will die with thee— not yet — 
Alas! yet this was what I pray'd lor — this — 
To kiss thy cold cheek, and inhale thy last — 
Thy dying breath. 

IMLAH. 

Behold ! behold, they rise ; 
Feebly they stand, by their united strength 
Supported. Hath yon kindling of the darkness, 
Yon blaze, that seems as if the earth and heaven 
Were mingled in one ghastly funeral pile, 
Aroused them ? Lo, the flumes, like a gorged serpent 
That slept in glittering but scarce-moving folds, 
Now, having sprung a nobler prey, break out 
In tenfold rage. 

ADONIJAH. 

How like a lioness, 
Robb'd of her kingly brood, she glares? She wipes 
From her wan brow the grey discolour'd locks 
Where used to gleam Assyria's diudem ; 
And now and then her tenderest glance recurs 
To him that closer to her bleeding heart 
She clasps, as self-reproachful that aught earthly 
Distracts her from her one maternal care. 

IMLAH. 

More pale, and more intent, he looks abroad 
Into the ruin, as though he felt a pride 
Even in the splendour of the desolation ! 

BELSHAZZAR. 

The hand — the unbodied hand — it moves — look 

there ! 
Look where it points ! — my beautiful palace — 

NITOCRIS. 

Look — 
The Temple of great Bel 

BELSHAZZAR. 

Our halls of joy ! 

NITOCRIS. 

Earth's pride and wonder ! 

IMLAH. 

Ay, o'er both the fire 
Mounts like a conqueror: here, o'er spacious courts 
And avenues of pillars, and long roofs. 
From which red streams of molten gold pour down, 
It spreads, till all, like those vast fabrics, seem 
Built of the rich clouds round the setting sun — 
All the wide heavens, one bright and shadowy pal- 
ace! 
But terrible here — th' Almighty's wrathful hand 
Every where manifest! — There the Temple stands. 
Tower above tower, one pyramid of flame ; 
To which those kingly sepulchres by Nile 
Were but as hillocks to vast Caucasus ! 
Aloof, the wreck of Nimrod's impious tower 
Alone is dark; and something like a cloud. 
But gloomier, hovers o'er it. All is mute: 
Man's cries, and clashing steel, and braying Irumpet— 
The only sound the rushing noise of fire ! 
Now, hark! the universal crash — at once 

They fall — they sink 

416 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



407 



ADONIJAH. 

And so do those that ruled them ! 
The Palace, and the Temple, and the race 
Of Nabonassar, are at once extinct ! 
Babylon and her kings are fallen for ever ! 

IMLAH. 

Without a cry, without a groan, behold them, 
Th' Imperial mother and earth-ruling son, 
Stretch'd out in death ! Nor she without a gleam 
Of joy expiring with her cheek on his: 
Nor he unconscious that with him the pride 
And terror of the world is fallen — th' abode 
And throne of universal empire — now 
A plain of ashes round the tombless dead I — 
Oh, God of hosts ! Almighty, everlasting! 
God of our Fathers, thou alone art great ! 

NOTES. 

Note 1. 
Of Nabonassar's away. 
"Nebuchadnessar — Nabonassar — Ce nom est con- 
fbndu par les Orientaux avec celui de Nabocadnassar, 
quoique les Grecs et les Latins les distinguent." 

D^ Herbelot, Bibl. Orientale. 
Note 2. 
Save with the immaculate blood of yearling lambs. 
From Diodorus. 



Note 
The God reposes, must the chosen Virgin. 
See Herodotus, Clio. 

Note 4. 
Down to the red and pearly main. 
The Erythrean Sea, the Gulf of Persia, celebrated 
for the pearls of Ormuz. 

Note 5. 

The golden statue stands of Nabonassar. 

It does not appear certain what this statue was, 

which Nebuchadnezzar erected on the plain of Dura. 

I have taken the poetic license of supposing it to bu 

his own. 

Note 6. 
Thou Zedekiah, didst desert thy God. 
Zedekiah, carried away at the last and final desola- 
tion of Jerusalem. 

Note 7. 
We drink Mylitta's breathing balm. 
The Assyrian Venus. — Herod. 

Note a 
And, through the deep and roaring Naharmalcha. 
The royal canal which connected the waters of the 
Euphrates with the artificial lake. 



Kixt iFall of 3tx\m^ltm; 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



INTRODUCTION. 



EvKRY reader will at once perceive from the nature 
of the interest, and from the language, that this drama 
was neither written with a view to public represent- 
ation, nor can be adapted to it without being entirely 
re-modelled and re-written. The critic will draw the 
same conclusion from certain peculiarities in the com- 
position, irreconciieable with the arrangements of the 
theatre; the introducing and dismissing of the subor- 
dinate characters after a single appearance ; and yet 
appropriating to them some of the most poetical 
speeches. 

The groundwork of the poem is to be found in 
Josephus, but the events of a considerable time are 
compressed into a period of about thirty-six hours. 
Though their children are fictitious characters, the 
leaders of the Jews, Simon, John, and Eleazar, are 
historical. At the beginning of the siege the defend- 
ers of the city were divided into three factions. John, 
however, having surprised Eleazar, who occupied the 
Temple, during a festival, the party of Eleazar became 
subordinate to that of John. The character of John 



the Galilean was that of excessive sensuality, I have 
therefore considered him as belonging to the sect of 
the Sadducees ; Simon, on the other hand, I have re- 
presented as a native of Jerusalem, and a strict Pha- 
risee ; althougli his soldiers were chiefly Edomites. 
The Christians, we learn from Eusebius, abandoned 
the city previous to the siege (by divine command, 
according to that author,) and took refuge in Pella, a 
small town on the further side of the Jordan. The 
constant tradition of the Church has been, that no one 
professing that faith perished during all the havoc 
which attended on this most awful visitation. 

It has been my object also to show the full comple- 
tion of prophecy in this great event ; nor do I conceive 
that the public mind (should this poem merit attention) 
can be directed to so striking and so incontestable an 
evidence of the Christian faith without advantage. 
Those whom duty might not induce to compare the 
long narrative of Josephus with the Scriptural pre- 
diction of the "Abomination of Desolation," may be 
tempted by the embellishments of (wetic language, 
and the interest of a dramatic fable. 



417 



408 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CHARACTERS. 



ROMANS. 
Titus. 

Caius Placidus. 

Tiberius Alexander. 

Terentius Rufus. 

DiAGORAS, a Sloic philosopher. 

Joseph {l/ie Historian,) with the Roman Army. 

Soldiers, etc. 

JEWS IN THE CITY, 
Simon, the Assassin. 
John, the Tyrant. 
Eleazar, the Zealot. 
Amariah, Son of John. 

The fllGH-PlUEST. 

Ben Cathla, Leader of the Edomiles. 

Aaron, a Levile. 

Abiram, a false Prophet. 

Many Jews. 

Javan, a Christian, by birth a Jew. 

Miriam, 

Salone, 



> Daughters of Simon. 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



The Mount of Olives — Evening. 
Titus, Caius Placidus, Tiberius Alexander, Te- 
rentius Rufus, Diagoras, etc. 

TITUS. 

Advance the eagles, Caius Placidus, (1) 

Even to the walls of this rebellious city ! 

What ! shall our bird of conquest, that hath flown 

Over the world, and built her nest of glory 

Even in the palace tops of proudest kings, 

What! shall she check and pause here in her circle, 

Her centre of dominion ? By the gods. 

It is a treason to all-conquering Rome, 

That thus our baffled legions stand at bay 

Before this hemm'd and famishing Jerusalem. 

PLACIDUS. 

Son of Vespasian ! I have been a soldier, 

Till the helm hath worn mine aged temples bare. 

Battles have been familiar to mine eyes 

As is the sunlight, and the angry Mars 

Wears not a terror to appal the souls 

Of constant men, but I have fronted it. 

I have seen the painted Briton sweep to battle 

On his scythed car, and when he fell, he fell 

As one that honour'd death by nobly dying. 

And I have been where flying Parthians shower'd 

Their arrows, making the pursuer check 

His fierce steed with the sudden grasp of death. 

But war like this, so frantic and so desperate, 

Man ne'er beheld. Our swords are blunt with slaying. 

And yet, as though the earth cast up again 

Souls discontented with a single death, 

They grow beneath the slaughter. Neither battle, 

Nor famine, nor the withering pestilence. 

Subdues these prodigals of blood : by day 

They cast their lives upon our swords ; by night 



They turn their civil weapons on themselves, 
Even till insatiate War shrinks to behold 
The hideous consummation. 

TITUS. 

It must be — 
And yet it moves me, Romans! it confounds 
The counsels of my firm philosophy, 
That Ruin's merciless ploughshare must pass o'er. 
And barren salt be sown on yon proud city. 
As on our olive-crowned hill we stand. 
Where Kedron at our feet its scanty waters 
Distils from stone to stone with gentle motion, 
As through a valley sacred to sweet peace. 
How boldly doth it front us! how majestically! 
Like a luxurious vineyard, the hill side 
Is hung with marble fabrics, line o'er line, 
Terrace o'er terrace, nearer still, and nearer 
To the blue heavens. Here bright and sumptuous 

palaces. 
With cool and verdant gardens interspersed ; 
Here towers of war that frown in massy strength. 
While over all hangs the rich purple eve, 
As conscious of its being her last farewell 
Of light and glory to that fated city. 
And, as our clouds of battle dust and smoke 
Are melted into air, behold the Temple, 
In undisturb'd and lone serenity 
Finding itself a solemn sanctuary 
In the profound of heaven ! It stands before us 
A mount of snow fretted with golden pinnacles ! (2) 
The very sun, as though he worshipp'd there. 
Lingers upon the gilded cedar roofs ; 
And down the long and branching porticoes, 
On every flowery-sculptured capital. 
Glitters the homage of his parting beams. 
By Hercules! the sight might almost win 
The offended majesty of Rome to mercy. 

TIBERIUS ALEXANDER. 

Wondrous indeed it is, great Son of Cffisar, 

But it shall be more wondrous, when the triumph 

Of Titus marches through those brazen gates. 

Which seem as though they would invite the world 

To worship in the precincts of her Temple, 

As he in laurell'd pomp is borne along 

To that new palace of his pride. 

TITUS. 

Tiberius! 
It cannot be 

TIBERIUS. 

What cannot be, which Rome 
Commands, and Titus, the great heir of Rome ? 

TITUS. 

I tell thee, Alexander, it must fall ! 

Yon lofiy citv, and yon gorgeous Temple, 

Are consecrate to Ruin. Earth is weary 

Of the wild factions of this jealous people. 

And they must feel our wrath, the wrath of Rome; 

Even so that the rapt stranger shall admire 

Where that proud city stood, which was Jerusalem. 

DIAGORAS. 

Thy brethren of the Porch, imperial Titus, (3) 
Of late esteem'd thee at the height of those 

418 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



409 



That with consummate wisdom have tamed down 
The fierce and turbulent passions which distract 
The vulgar soul ; they deem'd that, hke Olympus, 
Thou, on thy cold and lofty eminence, 
Severely didst maintain thy sacred quiet 
Above the clouds and tumult of low earth. 
But now we see ihee stooping to the thraldom 
Of every fierce affection, now entranced 
In deepest admiration, and anon 
Wrath hath the absolute empire o'er Ihy soul, 
Methinks we must unschool our royal pupil, 
And cast him back to the common herd of men. 

TITUS. 

'T is true, Diagoras ; yet wherefore ask not, 
For vainly have I question'd mine own reason : 
But thus it is — I know not whence or how. 
There is a stern command ujwn my soul. 
I feel the inexorable fate within 
That tells rfte, carnage is a duty here. 
And that the appointed desolation chides 
The tardy vengeance of our war. Diagoras, 
If that I err, impeach my tenets. Destiny 
Is over all, and hard Necessity 
Holdy o'er the shifting course of human things 
Her paramount dominion. Like a flood 
The irresistible stream of fate flows on, 
And urges in its vast and sweepmg motion 
Kings, Consuls, Cssars, with their mightiest armies, 
, Each to his fix'd, inevitable end. 
I Yea, even eternal Rome, and Father Jove, 
Sternly submissive, sail that onward tide. 
And now am I upon its rushing bosom, 
I feel its silent billows swell beneath me. 
Bearing me and the conquering arms of Rome 
'Gainst yon devoted city. On they pass, 
And ages yet to come shall pause and wonder 
I At the utter wreck,which they shall leave behind them. 
1 But, Placidus, I read thy look severe. 
' This is no time nor place for school debates 
I On the high points of wisdom. Let this night 
I Our wide encircling walls complete their circuit; (4) 
I And still the approaching trenches closer mine 
j Their secret way : the engines and the towers 
I Stand each at their appointed post — Terentius, 
I That charge be thine. 

TERE\TIUS. 

iThere spoke again the Roman. 
I Faith! like old Mummius, I should give to the flame 
J Whate'er opposed the sovereign sway of Caesar, (5) 
If it were wrought of massy molten gold : 
And though I wear a beard, I boast hot much 
Of my philosophy. But this I know. 
That to oppose the omnipotent arms of Rome 
Is to pluck down and tempt a final doom. 



Tlie Fountain of Siloe. — Night. 

JAVAN. 

Sweet fountain, once again I visit thee ! (6) 
And thou irt flowing on, and freshening still 
The green moss, and the flowers that bend to thee. 
Modestly with a soft unboastful murmur, 



Rejoicing at the blessings that thou bearest. 
Pure, stainless, thou art flowing on ; the stars 
Make thee their mirror, and the moonlight beams 
Course one another o'er thy silver bosom : 
And yet thy flowing is through fields of blood, 
And arm'd men their hot and weary brows 
Slake with thy limpid and perennial coolness. 

Even with such rare and singular purity 
Movest thou, oh Miriam, in yon cruel city. 
Men's eyes, o'erwearied with the sighls of war, 
With tumult and with grief, repose on thee 
As on a refuge and a sweet refreshment. 
Thou canst o'erawe, thou in thy gentleness, 
A trembling, pale, and melancholy maid, 
The brutal violence of ungodly men. 
Thou glidest on amid the dark pollution 
In modesty unstain'd; and heavenly influences. 
More lovely than the light of star or moon. 
As though delighted with their own reflection 
From spirit so pure, dwell evermore upon thee. 

Oh ! how dost thou, beloved proselyte 
To the high creed of him who died for men, 
Oh ! how dost thou commend the truths I teach thee. 
By the strong faith and soft humility 
Wherewith thy soul embraces them? Thou prayest, 
,4nd I, who pray with thee, feel my words wing'd, 
And holier fervour gushing from my heart, 
While heaven seems smiling kind acceptance down 
On the associate of so pure a worshipper. 

But ah ! why comest thou not ? these two long 
nights 
I 've watch'd for thee in vain, and have not felt 
The music of thy footsteps on my spirit 

VOICE AT A DISTANCE. 

Javan ! 

JAVAN. 

It is her voice ! the air is fond of it. 
And enviously delays its tender sounds 
From the ear that thirsteth for them — Miriam ! 

Javan, Miriam. 

JAVAN. 

Nay, stand thus in thy timid breathlessness. 
That I may gaze on thee, and thou not chide me 
Because I gaze too fondly. 

MIRIAM. 

Hast thou brought me 
Thy wonted offerings ? 

JAVAN. 

Dearest, they are here : 
The bursting fig, the cool and ripe pomegranate. 
The skin all rosy with the imprison'd wine ; 
All I can bear thee, more than thou canst bear 
Home to the city. 

MIRIAM. 

Bless thee! — Oh my father! 
How- will thy famish'd and thy toil-bovv'd frame 
Resume its native majesty ! thy words, 
When this bright draught hath slaked thy parched h'ps, 
Flow with their wonted freedom and command. 

JAVAN. 

Thy father! still no thought but of Ihy father! 
Nay, Miriam! but thou must hear me now, 

419 



410 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Now ere we part — if we must part again, 

If my sad spirit must be rent from thine. 

Even now our city trembles on the verge 

Of utter ruin. Yet a night or two, 

And the fierce stranger in our burning streets. 

Stands conqueror: and how the Roman conquers, 

Let Gisehala, let fallen Jotapata (7) 

Tell, if one living man, one innocent child, 

Yet wander o'er their cold and scatter'd ashes. 

They slew them, Miriam, the old grey man, 

Whose blood scarce tinged their swords — (nay, turn 

not from me, 
The tears thou sheddest feel as thoiigh I wrung them 
From mine own heart, my life-blood's dearest drops) — 
They slew them, Miriam, at the mother's breast, 
The smihng infants; — and the tender maid, 
The soft,the loving and the chaste, like thee, 
They slew her not till 

MIRIAM. 

Javan, 'tis unkind ! 
I have enough at home of thoughts like these, 
Thoughts horrible, that freeze the blood, and make 
A heavier burthen of this weary life. 
I hoped with thee t' have pass'd a tranquil hour, 
A brief; a hurried, yet still tranquil hour! 
— But thou art like them all ! the miserable 
Have only Heaven, where they can rest in peace. 
Without being raock'd and taunted with their misery. 

JAVAN. 

Thou know'st it is a lover's wayward joy 

To be reproach'd by her he loves, or thus 

Thou wouldst not speak. But 't was not to provoke 

That sweet reproof, which sounds so like to tenderness: 

I would alarm thee, shock thee, but to save. 

That old and secret stair, down which thou stealest 

At midnight through tall grass and olive trunks, 

Which cumber, yet conceal thy difficult path, 

It cannot long remain secure and open ; 

Nearer and closer the stern Roman winds 

His trenches ; and on every side but this 

Soars his imprisoning wall. Yet, yet 'tis time. 

And I must bear thee with me, where are met 

In Pella the neglected church of Christ. 

BIIRIAM. 

With thee ! to fly with thee ! thou makest me fear 
Lest all this while I have deceived my soul, 
Excusing to myself our stolen meetings 
By the fond thought, that for my father's life 
I labour'd, bearing sustenance from thee, 
Which he hath deem'd heaven-sent. 

JAVAN. 

Oh ! farewell then 
The faithless dream, the sweet yet faithless dream, 
That Miriam loves me ! 

MIRIAM. 

Love thee ! I am here, 
Here at dead midnight by the fountain's side. 
Trusting thee, Javan, with a faith as fearless 
As that with which the instinctive infant twines 
To its mother's bosom — Love thee ! when the sounds 
Of massacre are round me, when the shouts 
Of frantic men in battle rack the soul 



With their importunate and jarring din, 

Javan, I think on thee, and am at peace. 

Our famish'd maidens gaze on me, and see 

That I am famish'd like themselves, as pale, 

With lips as parch'd and eyes as wild, yet I 

Sit patient with an enviable smile 

On my wan cheeks, for then mv spirit feasts 

Contented on its pleasing thoughts of thee. 

My very prayers are full of thee, I look 

To heaven and bless thee ; for from thee I learnt 

The way by which we reach the eternal mansions. 

But thou, injurious Javan! coldly doubtest! 

And — Oh! but I have said too much! Oh! scorn not 

The immodest maid, whom thou hast vex'd to utter 

What yet she scarce dared whisper to herself. 

JAVAN. 

Will it then cease? will it not always sound 
Sweet, musical as thus? and wilt thou leave me ? 

MIRIAM. 

My father ! 

JAVAN. 

Miriam ! is not thy father 
(Oh, that such flowers should bloom on such a stock I) 
The curse of Israel ? even his common name 
Simon the Assassin! of the bloody men 
That hold their iron sway within yon city. 
The bloodiest ! 

MIRIAM. 

Oh cease ! I pray thee cease ! 
Javan ! I know that all men hate my father; 
Javan ! I fear that all should hate my father; 
And therefore, Javan, must his daughter's love. 
Her dutiful, her deep, her fervent love. 
Make up to his forlorn and desolate heart 
The forfeited affections of his kind. 
Is 't not so written in our Law ? and He 
We worship came not to destroy the Law. 
Then let men rain their curses, let the storm 
Of human hate beat on his rugged trunk, 
I will cling to him, starve, die, bear the scofis 
Of men upon my scatter'd bones with him. 

JAVAN. 

Oh, Miriam ! what a fatal art hast thou 

Of winding thought, word, act, to thy sole purpose; 

The enamouring one even now too much enamour'dl 

I must admire thee more for so denying. 

Than I had dared if thou hadst fondly granted. 

Thou dost devote thyself to utterest peril. 

And me to deepest anguish ; yet even now 

Thou art lovelier to me in thy cold severity. 

Flying me, leaving me without a joy. 

Without a hope on earth, without thyself; 

Thou art lovelier now than if thy yielding soul 

Had smiled on me a passionate consent. 

Go ! for I see thy parting homeward look, 

Go in thy beauty! like a setting star, 

The last in all the thick and moonless heavens. 

O'er the lone traveller in the trackless desert. 

Go ! if this dark and miserable earth 

Do jealously refuse us place for meeting. 

There is a heaven for those who trust in Christ. 

Farewell ' 

And thou return'st ! — 

420 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



411 



MIRIAM. 

I had forgot 

The fruit, the wine Oh ! when I part from thee 

How can I think of aught but Ihy last words ? 

JAVAN. 

Bless thee ! but we may meet again even here ! 
Thou look'st consent, I see it through thy tears. 
Yet once again that cold sad word, Farewell ! 



The House of SimoTi. 

MIRIAM. 

Oh God ! thou surely dost approve mine act, 
For thou didst bid thy soft and silver moon 
To light me back upon my intricate way. 
Even o'er each shadowy thing at which I trembled 
She pour'd a sober beauty, and my terror 
Was mingled with a sense of calm delight. 
How changed that way ! when yet a laughing child, 
It was my sport to thread that broken stair 
That from our house leads down into the vale, 
By which, in ancient days, the maidens stole 
To bathe in the cool fountain's secret waters. 
In each wild olive trunk, and twisted root 
Of sycamore, with ivy overgrown, 
1 have nestled, and the flowers would seem to wel- 
come me. 
I loved it with a child's capricious love. 
Because none knew it but myself Its loneliness 
I loved, for still my sole companions there. 
The doves, sate murmuring in the noonday sun. 
Ah ! now there broods no bird of peace and love ! 
Even as I pass'd, a sullen vulture rose. 
And heavily it flapp'd its huge wings o'er me, 
As though o'ergorged with blood of IsraeL 

Miriam, Salone. 

MIRIA.M. 

Sister, not yet at rest? 

SALONE. 

At rest I at rest ! 
The wretched and the desperate, let them court 
The dull, the dreamless, the unconscious sleep. 
To lap them in its stagnant lethargy. 
But oh ! the bright, the rapturous disturbances 
That break my haunted slumbers! Fast they come, 
They crowd around my couch, and all my chamber 
Is radiant with them. There I lie and bask 
In their glad promise, till the oppressed spirit 
Can bear no more, and I come forth to breathe 
The cool free air. 

Mini AM. 

Dear sister, in our state 
So dark, so hopeless, dreaming still of glory ! 

SALONE. 

Low-minded Miriam ! I tell thee, oft 
I have told thee, nightly do the visitations 
Break on my gifted sight, more golden bright 
Than the rich morn on Carmel. Of their shape, 
Sister, I know not ; this I only know, 
That they pour o'er me like the restless waters 
Of some pure cataract in the noontide sun. 
There is a mingling of all glorious forms, 
35 3B 



Of Angels riding upon cloudy thrones. 

And our proud city marching all abroad 

Like a crown'd conqueror o'er the trampled Gentiles. 

MIRIAM. 

Alas! when God afflicts us in his wrath, 
'Tis sin to mock with wild untimely gladne.ss 
His stern inflictions ! Else, beloved Salone, 
My soul would envy thee thy mad fi)rgetfulness, 
And dote on the distraction of thy dreams 
Till it imbibed the infection of their joy. 

SALONE. 

What mean'st thou ? 

MIRIAM. 

Ah! thou know'st too well, Salone, 
How with an audible and imperious voice 
The Lord is speaking in the streets of Judah, 
"Down to the dust, proud daughters of Jerusalem! 
The crownings of your head be bitter ashes. 
Your festal garments changed to mourning sackcloth, 
Your bridal songs fall into burial wailings." 

SALONE. 

Our bridal songs ! (8) Away ! I know them now, 

They were the rich and bursting cadences 

Tiiat thrall'd mine ears. I tell thee, doubting woman! 

My spirit drank the sounds of all the city. 

And there were shriekings for the dead, and sobs 

Of dying men, and the quick peevish moan 

Of the half fumish'd : there were trumpet sounds 

Of arming to the battle, and the shouts 

Of onset, and the fall of flaming houses 

Crashing around. But in the house of Simon, 

The silver lute spake to the dulcimer; 

The tabret and the harp held sweet discourse ; 

And all along our roofs, and all about 

The silence of our chambers flow'd the sweetness. 

Even yet I hear them — Hark ! yet, yet they sound. 

MIRIAM. 

Alas! we listen to our own fond hopes. 
Even till they seem no more our fiincy's children. 
We put them on a prophet's robes, endow them 
With prophets' voices, and then Heaven speaks in 

them. 
And that which we would have be, surely shall be. 

SALONE. 

What, mock'st thou still? still enviously doubtest 
The mark'd and favour'd of the Everlasting ? 

MIRIAM. 

gracious Lord ! thou know'st she hath not eaten 
For two long days, and now her troubled brain 

Is full of strangeness. 

SALONE. 

Ha! still unbelieving! 
Then, then 't is true, what I have doubted long. 
False fraitrcfss to our city, to the race. 
The chosen race of Abraham ! loose apostate 
From Israel's faith ! Believer in the Crucified ! 

1 know thee, I abjure thee. Thou 'rt no child 
Of Simon's house, no sister of Salone : 

I blot thee from my heart, I wipe away 

All memory of our youthful pleasant hours. 

Our blended sports and tasks, and joys and sorrows; 

Yea, I '11 proclaim thee. 

421 



U 



412 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



MIRIAM. 

Sister! dearest sister ! 
Thou see'st that I cannot speak for tears. 

SALONE. 

Away! thou wilt not speak, thou darest not — Hark! 
My father's armed footstep ! at whose tread 
Sion rejoices, and the pavement stones 
Of Salem shout with proud and boastful echoes. 
The Gentiles' scourge, the Christians' — tremble, false 
one ! 

Miriam, Salo\e, Sx.mon. 

SALONE. 

Father ! 

MIRIAM. 

Dear father ! 

SIMON. 

Daughters, I have been 
With Eleazar, and with John of Galilee, 
The son of Sadoe. We have search'd the city 
If any rebel to our ordinance 
Do traitorously withhold his private hoard 
Of stolen provision from the public store. 

SALONE. 

And found ye any guilty of a fraud 
So base on Judah's warriors ? 

SI.MO.V. 

Yes, my children! 
There sate a woman in a lowly house. 
And she had moulded meal into a cake ; 
And she sate weeping even in wild delight 
Over her sleeping infants, at the thought 
Of how their eyes would glisten to behold 
The unaccustom'd food. She had not tasted 
Herself the strange repast: but she had raised 
The covering under which the children lay 
Crouching and clinging fondly to each other, 
As though the warmth that breath'd from out their 

bodies 
Had some refreshment for their wither'd lips. 
We bared our swords to. slay : but subtle John 
Snatch'd the food from her, trod it on the ground, 
And mock'd her. 

MIRIAM. 

But ihou didst not smite her, father ? 

SI.MON. 

No! we were wiser than to bless with death 
A wretch like her. 

But I must seek within, 
If he that oft at dead of midnight placeth 
The wine and fruit within our chosen house, 
Hath minister'd this night to Israel's chief. 
Miriam, Salone. 

SALONE. 

Oh, Miriam ! I dare not tell him now! 
For even as those two infants lay together 
Nestling their sleeping faces on each other. 
Even so have we two lain, and I have felt 
Thy breath upon my face, and every motion 
Of thy soft bosom answering to mine own. 
Si.MON, Salone, Miriam. 

SIMON. 

Come, daughters, I have wash'd my bloody hands, 
And said my prayers, and we will eat — And thee 



First will I bless, thou secret messenger. 

That mine ambrosial banquet dost prepare 

With gracious stealth : where'er thou art, if yet 

Thy unseen presence lingers in our air, 

Or walks our earth in beauty, hear me bless thee. 

MIRIAM {apart.) 
He blesseth me! me, though he means it not! 
I thought t' have heard his stern heart-withering curse. 
And God hath changed it to a gentle blessing. 

SIMON. 

Why stands my loving Miriam aloof? 
Will she not join to thank the God of Israel, 
Who thus with signal mercy seals her father 
His chosen captain. 

MIRIAM {apart.) 
Yet must I endure — 
For if he knew it came from Christian hands, 
While the ripe fruit was bursting at his lips. 
While the cool wine-cup slaked his burning throat. 
He 'd dash it to the earth, and trample on it ; 

And then he'd perish, perish in his sins 

Father, I come — but I have vow'd to sing 
A hymn this night, — I 'II follow thee anon. 

SIMON. 

Come, then, Salone ; while we feast, I '11 tell thee 
More deeds of justice which mine arm hath wrought 
Against the foes of Salem, and the renegades 
That have revolted from the arms of Israel. 
And thou shalt wave thy raven locks with pride 
To hear the stern-told glories of thy father. 

MIRIAM, alone. 
O Thou ! thou who canst melt the heart of stone 
And make the desert of the cruel breast 
A paradise of soft and gentle thoughts ! 
Ah! will It ever be, that thou wilt visit 
The darkness of my lather's soul ? Thou knovv'est 
In what strong bondage Zeal and ancient Faith, 
Passion and stubborn Custom, and fierce Pride, 
Hold th' heart of man. Thou knowest. Merciful ! 
That knowest all things, and dost ever turn 
Thine eye of pity on our guilty nature. 

For thou wert born of woman ! thou didst come, 
Oh Holiest! to this world of sin and gloom. 
Not in thy dread omnipotent array ; 
And not by thunders strew'd 
Was thy tempestuous road ; 
Nor indignation burnt before thee on thy way. 
But thee, a soft and naked child, 

Thy mother undefiled. 
In the rude manger laid to rest 
From off her virgin breast. 

The heavens were not commanded to prepare 
A gorgeous canopy of golden air; 
Norstoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high: 
A single silent star 
Came wandering from afar. 
Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the hquid sky; 
The Eastern Sages leading on 

As at a kingly throne, 
To lay their gold and odours sweet 
Before thy infant feet. 

422 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



413 



The Earlh and Ocean were not hush'd to hear 
Bright harmony from every starry sphere ; 
Nor at thy presence brake the voice of song 
From all the cherub choirs, 
And seraphs' burning lyres 
Pour'd thro' the host of heaven the charmed clouds 
along. 
One angel troop the strain began, 

Of all the race of man 
The simple shepherds heard alone, 
That soft Hosanna's tone. 

And when thou didst depart, no car of flame 
To bear thee hence in lambent radiance came; 
Nor visible Angels mourn'd with drooping plumes: 
Nor didst thou mount on high 
From fatal Calvary 
With all thine own redeem'd outbursting from their 
tombs. 
For thou didst bear away from earth 

But one of human birth, 
The dying felon by thy side, to be 
In Paradise with thee. 

Nor o'er thy cross the clouds of vengeance brake ; 
A little while the conscious earth did shake 
At that foul deed by her fierce children done ; 
A few dim hours of day 
The world in darkness lay ; 
Then bask'd in bright repose beneath the cloud less sun: 
While thou didst sleep beneath the tomb, 

Consenting to thy doom ; 
Ere yet the white-robed Angel shone 
Upon the sealed stone. 

And when thou didst arise, thou didst not stand 
With Devastation in thy red right hand. 
Plaguing the guilty city's murtherous crew; 
But thou didst haste to meet 
Thy mother's coming feet. 
And bear the words of peace unto the faithful few. 
Then calmly, slowly didst thou rise 

Into thy native skies, 
Thy human form dissolved on high 
In its own radiancy. 



The House of Simon — Break of Day. 

SI.MON. 

The air is still and cool. It comes not yet : 
I thought that I had felt it in my sleep 
Weighing upon my choked and labouring breast. 
That did rejoice beneath the stern oppression ; 
I thought I saw its lurid gloom o'erspreading 
The starless waning night. But yet it comes not. 
The broad and sultry thunder-cloud, wherein 
The God of Israel evermore pavilions 
The chariot of his vengeance. I look out, 
And still, as I have seen, morn after morn, 
The hills of Judah flash upon my sight 
The accursed radiance of the Gentile arms. 

But oh ! ye sky-descending ministers, 
That on invisible and soundless wing 
Stoop to your earthly purposes, as swift 



As rushing fire, and terrible as the wind 

That sweeps the tentless desert — Ye that move 

Shrouded in secresy as in a robe, 

And gloom of deepest midnight the vaunt-courier 

Of your dread presence! Will ye not reveal? 

Will ye not one compassionate glimpse vouchsafe 

By what dark instruments 'tis now your charge 

To save the holy city? Lord of Israel! 

Thee too I ask, with bold yet holy awe. 
Which now of thy obsequious elements 
Choosest thou for thy champion and thy combatant ? 
For well they know, the wide and deluging Waters, 
The ravenous Fire, and the plague-breathing Air, 
Yea, and the yawning and wide-chasm'd Earth, 
They know thy bidding, by fix'd habit bound 
To the usage of obedience. Or the rather. 
Look we in weary yet undaunted hope 
For Him that is to come, the Mighty Arm, 
The Wearer of the purple robe of vengeance. 
The Crowned with dominion ! Let him haste ; 
The wine-press waits the trampling of his wrath, 
And .Tudah yearns t' unfurl the Lion banner . 
Before the terrible radiance of his coming. 

Simon, John, Eleazar, tJie High-Priest, Amariah, 
etc. etc. 
JOHN. 
How, Simon ! have we broken on thy privacy! 
Thou wert discoursing with the spirits of air. 
NovV, Eleazar, were not holy Simon, 
The just, the merciful, the righteous Simon, 
A vessel meet for the prophetic trance ? 
Methinks 't is on him now ! 

SIMON. 

Ha! John of Galilee, 
Still in the taunting vein ? Reserves! thou not 
The bitter overflowings of thy lips 
For yon fierce Gentiles ? — But I will endure. 

JOHN. 

And then perchance 't will please the saintly Simon, 
When he hath mumbled o'er his two-hour prayers. 
That we do ope our gates and sally forth 
To combat the uncircumcised 

SIMON. 

Thy scoflS 
Fall on me as the thin and scattering rain 
Upon our Temple. If thou art here to urge 
That, with confederate valiant resolution, 
We burst upon the enemies of Jerusalem; 
The thunder followeth not the lightning's flash 
More swiftly than my warlike execution 
Shall follow the fierce trumpet of thy wrath ! 

JOHN. 

But hast thou ponder'd well, if still there be not 
Some holy fast, new moon, or rigid sabbath, 
Which may excuse a tame and coward peace 
For one day longer to yon men of Edom ? 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Oh ! 't is unwise, ye svvorded delegates 
Of him who walchelh o'er Jerusalem, 
Thus day by day in angry quarrel meeting 
To glare upon each other, and to waste 
In civil strife the blood that might preserve us. 

423 



414 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The Roman conqners, but by Jewish arms. 
The torrent, that in one broad channel rolling 
Bears down the labour'd obstacles of man, 
The o'ersiriding bridge, the fix'd and ponderous dam, 
Being sever'd, in its lazy separate course 
Suffers control, and stagnates to its end. 
And so ye fall, because ye do disdain 
To stand together — like the pines of Lebanon, 
That when in one vast wood they crown the hill, 
From their proud heads shake off the uninjuring tem- 
pest; 
But when their single trunks stand bare and naked 
Before the rushing whirlwind, one by one 
It hurls the uprooted trunks into the vale. 

ELEAZAR {apart). 
Curse on his words of peace ! fall John, fall Simon, 
There falls an enemy of Eleazar. 

SIMO\. 

Now, John of Galilee, the High-Priest speaks wisely. 

JOHN. 

Why, ay, it is the privilege of their office, 
The solemn grave distinction of their ephod. 
Even such discourse as this, so calm, so sage, 
Did old Mathias hold ; (9) and therefore Simon, 
Unwilling that the vantage of his wisdom 
Should rob our valour of its boasted fiime. 
Did slay him with his sons upon our wall ! 

, SIMON. 

Peace, son of Belial ! or I '11 scourge thee back 

To the harlot chambers of thy loose adulteries. 

I slew my foe, and where 's the armed man 

That will behold his enemy at his feet. 

And spare to set his foot upon his neck? 

The sword was given, and shall the sword not slay ? 

li I GH- PRIEST. 

Break off! break off! I hear the Gentile horn 
Winding along the wide enlrenched line. 
Hear ye it not ? hill answers hill, the valleys 
In their deep channels lengthen out the sound. 
It rushes down Jehoshaphat, the depths 
Of Hinnom answer. Flark ! again they blow, 
Chiding you. men of Judah, and insulting 
Your bare and vacant walls, that now oppose not 
Their firm array of javelin-hurling men, 
Slingers, and pourersof the liquid fire. 

AMARIAH. 

Blow ! blow ! and rend the heavens, thou deep-voiced 

horn ! 
I hear thee, and rejoice at thee. Thou sumnioner 
To the storm of battle, thou that dost invite 
With stern and welcome importunity 
The warrior soul to that high festival. 
Where valour with his armed hand administers 
The cup of death ! 

JOHN. 

Again, again it sounds ; 
It doth demand a parley with our chiefs. 

AMARIAII. 

Ay, fatherland let Israel's chiefs reply 

In the brave language of their javelin showers, 

And shouts of furious onset. 



JOHN. 

Hold, hot boy, 
That know'st not the deep luxury of scorn. 
We'll meet them, Simon, but to scoff at them ; 
We'll dally with their hopes of base surrender, 
Then mock them, till their haughty captain writhe 
Beneath the keen and biting contumely. 

Now, Eleazar, lead the way ; brave Simon, 
I follow thee — Come, men of Israel, come. 



llie Walls of the City. 

Below — ^TiTUS, Roman Army, Joseph of Jotapata, etc. 
Above — Simon, John, Eleazar, Amariah, Jews. 

TITUS. 

Men of Jerusalem ! whose hardy zeal 

And valiant patience in a cause less desperate 

Might force the foe to reverence and admire; 

To you thus speaks again the Queen of Earth, 

All-conquering Rome! — whose kingdom is, where'er 

The sunshine beams on living men ; beneath 

The shadow of whose throne the world reposes, 

And glories in being subjected to her. 

Even as 't is subject to the immortal gods — 

To you, whose mad and mutinous revolt 

Hath harrow'd all your rich and pleasant land 

With fiery rapine : sunk your lofly cities 

To desolate heaps of monumental ashes ; 

Yet with that patience, which becomes the mighty. 

The endurance of the lion, that disdains 

The foe whose conquest bears no glory with it, 

Rome doth command you to lay down your arms. 

And bow the high front of your proud rebellion 

Even to the common level of obedience. 

That holds the rest of of human kind. So doing. 

Ye cancel all the dark and guilty past : 

Silent Oblivion waits to wipe away 

The record of your madness and your crimes ; 

And in the stead of bloody Vengeance claiming 

Her penal due of torture, chains, and death, 

Comes reconciling Mercy. 

JOHN. 

Mercy I Roman, 
With what a humble and a modest truth 
Thou dost commend thy unpresuming virtues! 
Ye want not testimonies to your mildness — (10) 
There, on yon lofty crosses, which surround us, 
Each with a Jewish corpse sublimely rotting 
On its most honourable eminence ; 
There's none in all that long and ghastly avenue 
Whose wind-bleach'd bones depose not of thy mercy. 
We know our brethren, and we thank thee too: 
A courteous welcome hast thou given them, Roman, 
Who have abandon'd us in the hour of peril. 
They fled to 'scape their ruthless countrymen : 
And, in good truth, their City of Refuge seems 
To have found them fair and gentle entertainment. 

SIMON. 

Peace, John of Galilee! and I will answer 
This purple-mantled Captain of the Gentiles; 
But in far other tone than he is wont 

424 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



415 



To hear about his silken couch of feasting 
Amid his pamper'd parasites. — I speak to thee, 
Titus, as warrior should accost a warrior. 
The world, thou boastest, is Rome's slave ; the sun 
Rises and sets upon no realm but yours ; 
Ye plant your giant foot in either ocean, 
And vaunt that all which ye o'erstride is Rome's. 
But think ye, that because the common earth 
Surfeits your pride with homage, that our land, 
Our separate, peculiar, sacred land, 
Portion'd and seal'd unto us by the God 
Who made the round world and the crystal hea- 
vens ; 
A wondrous land, where Nature's common course 
Is strange and out of use, so oft the Lord 
Invades it with miraculous intervention; 
Think ye this land shall be an Heathen heritage, 
An high place for your Moloch ? Haughty Gentile, 
Even now ye vsalk on ruin and on prodigy. 
The air ye breathe is heavy and o'ercharged 
With your dark gathering doom ; and if our earth 
Do yet in its disdain endure the footing 
Of your arm'd legions, 'tis because it labours 
With silent throes of expectation, waiting 
The signal of your scattering. Lo! the mountains 
Bend o'er you with their huge and lowering shadows, 
Ready to rush and overwhelm: the winds 
Do listen panting for the tardy presence 
Of Him that shall avenge. And there is scorn. 
Yea, there is laughter in our fathers' tombs, 
To think that Heathen conqueror doth aspire 
To lord it over God's Jerusalem ! 
Yea, in Hell's deep and desolate abode. 
Where dwell the perish'd kings, the chief of earth; 
They whose idolatrous warfare erst assail'd 
The Holy City, and the chosen people ; 
They wait for thee, the associate of their hopes 
And fatal fall, to join their ruin'd conclave. 
He whom the Red Sea 'whelm'd with all his host, 
Pharaoh, the Egyptian ; and the kings of Canaan ; 
The Philistine, the Dagon worshipper ; 
Moab, and Edom, and fierce Amalek ; 
And he of Babylon, whose multitudes. 
Even on the hills where gleam your myriad spears, (11) 
In one brief night the invisible Angel swept 
With the dark, noiseless shadow of his wing. 
And morn beheld the fierce and riotous camp 
One cold, and mute, and tombless cemetery, 
Sennacherib: all, all are risen, are moved; 
Yea, they take up the taunting song of welcome 
To him who, like themselves, hath madly warr'd 
'Gainst Zion's walls, and miserably fallen 
Before the avenging God of Israel ! 

THE JEWS. 

Oh, holy Simon ! Oh, prophetic Simon ! 
Lead thou, lead thou against the Gentile host. 
And we will ask no angel breath to blast them. 
The valour of her children soon shall scatter 
The spoiler from the rescued walls of Salem, 
Even till the wolves of Palestine are glutted 
With Roman carnage. 

AMARIAH. 

Blow, ye sacred priests, 
35* 



Your trumpets, as when Jericho of old 

Cast down its prostrate walls at Joshua's feet! 

PLACIDUS. 

Let the Jew speak, the captive of Jotapata ; 
Haply they 'II reverence one, and him the bravest. 
Of their own kindred. 

TERENTIUS. 

See ! he speaks to them ; 
And they do listen, though their menacing brows 
Lower with a darker and more furious hate. 

JOSIiPII. 

Yet, yet a little while — ye see me rise. 
Oh, men of Israel, brethren, countrymen! 
Even from the earth ye see me rise, where lone. 
And sorrowful, and fasting, I have sale 
These three long days ; sad sackcloth on the limbs 
Which once were vi'ont to wear a soldier's raiment, 
And ashes on the head, which ye of old 
Did honour, when its helmed glories shone 
Before you in the paths of battle. Hear me, 
Ye that, as I, adore the Law, the Prophets ; 
And at the inofliible thrice-holiest name 
Bow down your awe-struck foreheads to the ground. 
I am not here to tell you, men of Israel, 
That it is madness to contend with Rome ; 
That it were wisdom to submit and follow 
The common fortunes of the universe ; 
For ye would answer, that 'tis glorious madness 
To stand alone, amid the enslaved world. 
Freedom's last desperate champions : ye would an- 
swer. 
That the slave's wisdom to the free-born man 
Is basest folly. Oh, my countrymen ! 
Before no earthly king do I command you 
To fill! subservient, not all-conquering Cffisar, 
But in a mightier name I summon you. 
The King of Kings! He, he is manifest 
In the dark visitation that is on you. 
'T is He, whose loosed and raging ministers. 
Wild War, gaunt Famine, leprous Pestilence, 
But execute his delegated wralh. 
Yea, by the fulness of your crimes, 't is He. 
Alas! shall I weep o'er thee, or go down 
And grovel in the dust, and hide myself 
From mine own shame ? Oh, thou defiled Jerusalem ! 
That drinkest thine own blood as from a fountain; 
That hast piled up the fabric of thy guilt 
To such portentous height, that earth is darken'd 
With its huge shadow — that dost boast the monu- 
ments 
Of murder'd prophets, and dost make the robes 
Of God's High-priest a title and a claim 
To bloodiest slaughter— thou that every day 
Dost trample down the thunder-given Law, 
Even with the pride and joy of him that treads 
The purple vintage — And oh thou, our Temple! 
That wert of old the Beauty of Holiness, 
The chosen, unapproachable abode 
Of Him which dwelt between the cherubim. 
Thou art a charnel-house, and sepulchre 
Of slaughter'd men, a common butchery 
Of civil strife; — and hence proclaim I, brethren. 
It is the Lord who doth avenge his own : 

425 



416 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The Lord, who gives you over to the wicked, 
That ye may perish by their wickedness. 

Oh ! ye that do disdain to be Rome's slaves, 
And yet are sold unto a baser bondage, 
One that, like iron, eats inio your souls. 
Robbers, and Zealots, and wild Edomites ! 
Yea, these are they that sit in Moses' seat, 
Wield Joshua's sword, and fill the throne of David ; 
Yea, these are they 

AMARIAH. 

I '11 hear no more — the foe 
Claims from our lips the privilege of reply. 
Here is our answer to the renegade, 
A javelni to his pale and coward heart ! (12) 

JOSEPH. 

I am struck, but not to death I that yet is wanting 
To Israel's guilt. 

JEWS. 

Oh, noble Amariah ! 
Well hast thou spoken ! well hast thou replied ! 
Lead — lead — we '11 follow noble Amariah ! 

TITUS. 

Now, Mercy, to the winds ! I cast thee ofl^ 

My soul's forbidden luxury, I abjure thee I 

Thou much-abused attribute of gods 

And godlike men. 'T was nature's final struggle ; 

And now, whate'er thou art, thou unseen prompter.' 

That in the secret chambers of my soul 

Darkly abidest, and hast still rebuked 

The soft compunctious weakness of mine heart, 

I here surrender thee myself Now wield me 

Thine instrument of havoc and of horror, 

Thine to the extremest limits of revenge ; 

Till not a single stone of yon proud city 

Remain ; and even the vestiges of ruin 

Be utterly blotted from the face of earth! 



Streets of Jerusalem near the Inner Wall. 
MiRiAiM, Salone. 

MIRIAM. 

Sweet sister, whither in such haste ? 

SALONE. 

And know'st thou not 
My customary seat, where I look down 
And see the glorious battle deepen round me? 
Oh ! It is spirit-stirring to behold 
The crimson garments waving in the dust. 
The eagles glancing in the clouded sunshine. 

MIRIAM. 

Salone! in this dark and solemn hour. 
Were it not wiser that the weak and helpless, 
Bearing their portion in the common danger, 
Should join their feeble efiorls to defend — 
Should be upon their knees in fervent prayer 
Unto the Lord of Battles ? 

SAI.ONE. 

Yes ; I know 
That Zion's daughters are set forth to lead 
Their suppliant procession to the gates 
Of the Holy Temple. But Salone goes 
Where she may see the God whom they adore 



In the stern deeds of valiant men, that war 
To save that Temple from the dust. 

Behold ! 
1 mount my throne, and here I sit the queen 
Of the majestic tumult that beneath me 
Is maddening into conflict. Lo ! I bind 
My dark locks, that they spread not o'er my sight. 
Now flash the bright sun from your gleaming arms. 
Shake it in broad sheets from your banner folds. 
Mine eyes will slill endure the blaze, and pierce 
The thickest. 

MIRIAM. 

And thou hast no tears to blind thee? 

SALONE. 

Behold ! behold ! from Olivet they pour. 

Thousands on thousands, in their martial order. 

Kedron's dark valley, like Gennesareth, 

When over it the cold moon shines through storms, 

Topping its dark waves with uncertain light, 

Is tossing with wild plumes and gleaming spears. 

Solemnly the stern lictors move, and brandish 

Their rod-bound axes ; and the eagles seem 

With wings dispread, to watch their time lor swoop- 

ing! 
The towers are moving on ; and lo ! the engines. 
As though instinct with life, come heavily labouring 
Upon their ponderous wheels ; they nod destruction 
Against our walls. Lo! lo, our gates fly open : 
There Eleazar — there the mighiy John — 
Ben Cathia there, and Edom's crested sons. 
Oh ! what a blaze of glory gathers round them ! 
How proudly move they in invincible strength! 

MIRIA.M. 

And thou canst speak thus with a steadfast voice, 
When in one hour may death have laid in the dust 
Those breathing, moving, valiant multitudes ? 

SALONE. 

And thou ! oh thou, that movest to the battle 
Even like the mountain stag to the running river. 
Pause, pause, that I may gaze my fill I — 

MIRIA.M. 

Our father! 
Salone ! is 't our father that thou seest ? 

SALONE. 

Lo! lo! the war hath broken ofl^ to admire him! 
The glory of his presence awes the conflict ! 
The son of Csesar on his armed steed 
Rises, impatient of the plumed helms 
That from his sight conceal young Amariah. 

MIRIAM. 

Alas ! what means !«he ? Hear me yet a word ! 

I will return or ere the wounded men 

Require our soft and healing hands lo soothe them. 

Thou 'It not forget, Salone — if thou seest 

Our father in the fearful hour of peril. 

Lift up thy hands and pray. 

SALONE. 

To gaze on him — 
It is like gazing on the morning sun. 
When he comes scattering from his burning orb 
The vapourish clouds ! 

MIRIAM. 

She hears, she heeds me not. 
426 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



417 



And here 's a sight and sound to me more welcome 
Than the wild fray of men who slay and die — 
Our maidens on their way to the Holy Temple. 
J 'U mingle with them, and 1 '11 pray with them ; 
But through a name, by them unknown or scorn'd, 
My prayers shall mount to heaven. 

Behold them here ! 
Behold them, how unlike to what they were ! 
O virgin daughters of Jerusalem ! 
Ye were a garden once of Harmon's lilies, 
That bashfully upon their tremulous stems 
Bow to the wooing breath of the sweet spring. 
Graceful ye were ! there needed not the tone 
Of tabret, harp, or lute, to modulate 
Your soft harmonious footsteps ; your light tread 
Fell like a natural music. Ah! how deeply 
Hath the cold blight of misery prey'd upon you! 
How heavily ye drag your weary footsteps. 
Each like a mother mourning her one child ! 
Ah me! I feel it almost as a sin. 
To be so much less sad, less miserable. 

CHORUS. 

King of Kings ! and Lord of Lords ! 
Thus we move, our sad steps timing 
To our cymbals' feeblest chiming, 
Where thy House its rest accords. 
Chased and wounded birds are we. 
Through the dark air fled to thee; 
To the shadow of thy wings, 
Lord of Lords! and King of Kings! 

Behold, oh Lord! the Heathen tread (13) 

The branches of thy fruitful vine, 
That its luxurious tendrils spread 

O'er all the hills of Palestine. 
And now the wild boar comes to waste 
Even us, the greenest boughs and last, 
That, drinking of thy choicest dew, 
On Zion's hill in beauty grew. 

No ! by the marvels of thine hand. 
Thou still wilt save thy chosen land ! 
By all thine ancient mercies shown. 
By all our fathers' foes o'erthrovvn; 
By the Egyptian's car-borne host, 
Scatter'd on the Red Sea coast ; 
By that wide and bloodless slaughter 
Underneath the drownmg water. 

Like us in utter helplessness. 
In their last and worst distress — 
On the sand and sea-weed lying, 
Israel pour'd her doleful sighing; 
Wiiile before the deep sea flow'd 
And behind fierce Egypt rode — 
To their father's God they pray'd. 
To the Lord of Hosts for aid. 

On the margin of the flood 

With lifted rod the Prophet stood ; 

And the summoii'd east wind blew 

And aside it sternly threw 

Tlie gather'J waves, that took their stand. 

Like crystal rocks, on either hand. 



Or walls of sea-green marble piled 
Round some irregular city wild. 

Then the light of morning lay 
On the wonder-paved v\'ay. 
Where the treasures of the deep 
In their caves of coral sleep. 
The profound abysses, where 
Was never sound from upper air, 
Rang with Israel's chanted words. 
King of Kings ! and Lord of Lords ! 

Then with bow and banner glancing, 

On exulting Egypt came. 
With her chosen horsemen prancing, 

And her ears on wheels of flame, 
In a rich and boastful ring 
All around her furious king. 

But the Lord from out his cloud. 
The Lord look'd down upon the proud; 
And the host drave heavily 
Down the deep bosom of the sea. 

With a quick and sudden swell ■ 
Prone the liquid ramparts fell ; 
Over horse, and over car. 
Over every man of war. 
Over Pharaoh's crown of gold. 
The loud thundering billows roU'd. 
As the level waters spread, 
Down they sank, they sank like lead, 
Down without a cry or groan. 
And the morning sun, that shone 
On myriads of bright-armed men, 
Its meridian radiance then 

Cast on a wide sea, heaving as of yore. 

Against a silent, solitary shore. 

Then did Israel's maidens sing. 
Then did Israel's timbrels ring, 
To him, the King of Kings ! that in the .sea. 
The Ixird of Lords ! had triumph'd gloriously. 

And our timbrels' flashing chords. 

King of Kings! and Lord of Lords.' 

Shall they not attuned be 

Once again to victory ? 

Lo ! a glorious triumph now! 

Lo ! against thy people come 
A mightier Pharaoh ! wilt not thou 

Craze the chariot wheels of Rome? 
Will not, like the Red Sea wave. 

Thy stern anger overthrow ? 
And from worse than bondage save, 

From sadder than Egyptian woe. 
Those whose silver cymbals glance. 
Those who lead the suppliant dance. 
Thy race, the only race that sings 
Lord of Lords! and King of Kings! 



Streets nf Jerusalem — Evening. 

MIRIAM. 

Ah me! ungentle Eve, how long thou lingerest! 
Oh ! when it was a grief to me to lose 

427 



418 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yon azure mountains, and the lovely vales 
That from our city walls seem wandering on 
Under the cedar-tufted precipices ; 
With what an envious and a hurrying swiftness 
Didst thou descend, and pour thy mantling dewa 
And dew-like silence o'er the face of things ; 
Shrouding each spot 1 loved the most with suddenest 
And deepest darkness; making mule the groves 
Where the birds nestled under the still leaves! 
But now, how slowly, heavily thou fallest! 
Now, when thou mightest hush the angry din 
Of battle, and conceal the murtherous foes ' 
From mutual slaughter, and pour oil and wine 
Into the aching hurts of wounded men ! 
But is it therefore only that I chide thee 
With querulous impatience ? will the night 
Once more, the secret, counsel-keeping night. 
Veil the dark path which leads to Siloe's fountain ? 
Which leads — why should I blush to add — to Javan? 

Oh thou, my teacher ! I forgot thee not 
This morning in the Temple — I forgot not 
The name thou taught'st me to adore, nor thee 

But what have I to do with thoughts like these, 
While all around the stunning battle roars 
Like a gorged lion o'er his mangled prey '.' 
Alas! alas! but the human appetite 
For shedding blood, — that is insatiate ! 
— Time was, that if I heard a sound of arms. 
My heart would shudder, and my limbs would fail. 
When, to have seen a dying man had been 
A dark event, that with its fearful memory 
Had haunted many a sad and sleepless night. 
But now — now 

Salone, Miriam. 

MIRIAM. 

Sister ! my Salone ! Sister ! 
Why art thou flying with that frantic mien, 
Thy veil cast back and streaming with thine hair? 
Oh, harbinger of misery ! I read 
A sad disastrous story in thy face ; 
'Tis o'er, and God hath given the city of David 
Unto the stranger. 

SALONE. 

Oh! not yet; our wall, 
Our last, our strongest wall, is still unshaken. 
Though the fierce engines with their brazen heads 
Strike at it sternly and incessantlj'. 

MIRIAM. 

Then God preserve the lost ! and oh, our father ! 

SALONE. 

All is not lost! for Amariah stands 
Amid the rushing sheets of molten fire. 
Even like an Angel in the flaming centre 

Of the sun's noontide orb 

Hark ! hark ! — who comes ? 

SIMON. 

Back — back — I say, by 

MIRIAM. 

'Tis my father's voice! 
It sounds in wrath, perhaps in blasphemy ; 
Yet 't is my living father's voice — He 's here. 



Simon, Miriam, Salone. 

SIMON. 

Now may your native towers rush o'er your heada 
With horrible downfall, may the treacherous stones 
Start underneath your footing, cast you down. 
For the iron wheels of vengeance to rush o'er you — 
Flight ! flight ! still flight !— Oh, infidel renegades ! 

The above, John, A.mariah, High-Priest, etc. 

SI.MON. 

Now, by the living God of Israel, John ! 
Your silken slaves, your golden-sandal'd men, — 
Your men ! I should have said, your girls of Gali- 
lee!— 
They will not soil their dainty hands with blood. 
Their myrrh-dew'd locks are all too smoothly curl'd 
To let the riotous and dishevelling airs 
Of battle violate their crisped neatness. 
Oh ! their nice mincing steps are all unfit 
To tread the red and slippery paths of war; 
Yet they can trip it lightly when they turn , 
To fly 

JOHN. 

Thou lying and injurious Pharisee! 
For every man of thine that in the trenches 
Hardly hath consented to lay down his life, 
Twice ten of mine have leap'd from off the walls, 
Grappling a Gentile by the shivering helm, 
And proudly died upon his dying foe. 
But tell thou me, thou only faithful Simon ! 
Where are the men of Edom, whom we saw 
Stretching their amicable hands in parley, 
And quietly mingling with the unharming foe ? 

SIMON. 

Where are they ? where the traitors meet, where all 
The foes of Simon and Jerusalem, 
In th' everlasting fire! I slew them, John, — 
Thou saw'st my red hand glorious with their blood. 

JOHN. 

False traitors ! in their very treachery false ! 
They would betray without their lord — In truth, 
Treason, like empire, brooks not rivalry. 

SIMON. 

Now, by the bones of Abraham our father, 

I do accuse thee here, false John of Galilee ! 

Or, if the title please thee, John the Tyrant! 

Here, in our arm'd, embattled Sanhedrim, 

Thou art our fiill's prime cause, and fatal origin! 

From thee, as from a foul and poisonous fount. 

Pour the black waters of calamity 

O'er Judah's land ! God hates thee, man of Belial ! 

And the destroying bolts that fall on thee 

From the insulted heavens, blast all around thee 

With spacious and unsparing desolation. 

Hear me, ye men of Israel ! do ye wonder 

That all your baffled valour halh recoil'd 

From the fierce Gentile onset ? that your walls 

Are prostrate, and your last hath scarce repell'd 

But now the flush'd invader? 'Tis from this— 

That the Holy City will not be defended 

By womanish men, and loose adulterers. 

Hear me, I say, this son of Gischala, 

428 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



419 



This lustful tyrant, hath he not defiled 
Your daughters, in the open lace of day 
Done deeds of shame, which midnight hath no dark- 
ness 
So deep as to conceal ? It is his pride 
T' offend high heaven with crimes before unknown — 
Hath he not mock'd the austere and solemn fasts, 
And sabbaths of our Law, by revellings 
And most heaven-tainting wantonness? Yea, more, 
Hath he not made God's festivals a false 
And fraudful pretext for his deeds of guilt? 
Yea, on the day of the Unleavened Bread, 
Even m the garb and with the speech of worship, 
Went he not up into the very Temple ? (14) 
And there before the Veil, even in the presence 
Of th' Holy of Holies, did he not break forth 
With armed and infuriate violence ? 
Then did the pavement, which was never red 
But with the guiltless blood of sacrifice. 
Reek with the indelible and thrice-foulest stain 
Of human carnage. Yea, with impious steel 
He slew the bieihren that were kneeling with him 
At the same altar, uttering the same prayers. 
(Speak, Eleazar, was't not so? — thou darest not 
Affirm, nor canst deny thine own betrayal.) 
And since that cursed hour of guilty triumph 
There hath he held the palace of his lusts, (15) 
Turning God's Temple to a grove of Belial : 
Even till men wonder that the pillars start not 
From their fix'd sockets ; that the offended roof 
Fall not at once, and crush in his own shame 
The blasphemous invader. Yea, not yet, 
I have not fathom'd yet his depth of sin. 
His common banquet is the Bread of Offering, 
The vessels of the altar are the cups 
From which he drains his riotous drunkenness. 
The incense, that was wont to rise to heaven 
Pure as an infant's breath, now foully stagnates 
V/ithin the pestilent haunts of his lasciviousness. 
Can these things be, and yet our favour'd arms 
Be clad with victory ? Can the Lord of Israel 
For iis, the scanty remnant of his worshippers, 
Neglect to vindicate his tainted shrine. 
His sanctuary profaned, his outraged Laws? 

JOHN. 

Methinks, if Simon had but fought to-day 
As valiantly as Simon speaks, the foe 
Had never seen to-morrow's onset — 

SIMON. 

Brethren, 
Yet I demand your audience 

JEWS. 

Hear him ! 
The righteous Simon ! 

SIMON. 

Men of Israel ! 
Why stand ye thus in wonder? where the root 
Is hollow, can the tree be sound ? Man's deeds 
Are as man's doctrines ; and who hopes for aught 
But wantonness and foul iniquity 
From that blaspheming and heretical sect. 
The serpent spawn of Sadoc, that corrupt 
The Law of Moses and disdain the Prophets? 
3C 



That grossly do defraud the eternal soul 

Of its immortal heritage, and doom it 

To rot for ever with its kindred clay 

In the grave's deep unbroken prison-house ? 

Yea, they dispeople with their infidel creed 

Heaven of its holy Angels; laugh to scorn 

That secret band of ministering Spirits; 

That therefore, in their indignation, stand 

Aloof, and gaze upon our gathering ruin 

With a contemptuous and pitiless scorn. 

They that were wont to range around our towers 

Their sunlight-wing'd battalia, and to war 

Upon our part with adamantine arms. 

JOHN. 

Oh ! impotent and miserable arguer! 
Will he that values not the stake as boldly 
Confront the peril as the man that feels 
His all upon the hazard ? Men of Galilee, 
The cup of Life hath sparkled to our lips, 
And we have drain'd its tide of love and jo)', 
Till our veins almost burst with o'erwrought rapture; 
And well we know, that generous cup. once dash'd. 
Shall never mantle more to the cold lips 
Of liie earth-bound dead. And therefore do we fight 
For life as for a mistress, that being lost. 
Is lost for ever. To be what we are 
Is all we hope or pray for ; think ye, then. 
That we shall tamely yield the contest up. 
And calmly acquiesce in our extinction ? 
We know that there stands yawning at our feet 
The gulf, where dark Annihilation dwells 
With Solitude, her sister ; and we fix 
Our steadfast footing on the perilous verge. 
And grapple to the last with the fierce foe 
That seeks to plunge us down; and where 's the 
strength 

That can subdue despair? For the other charge. 

We look not, Simon, to the sky, nor pray 

For sightless and impalpable messengers 

To spare us the proud peril of the war : 

Ourselves are our own .'\ngels ! we implore not 

Or supernatural or spiritual aid ; 

We have our own good arms, that God hath given us. 

And valiant hearts to wield those mighty arms. 

SIMON. 

Oh heavens ! oh heavens, ye hear it, and endure it! 
Outwearied by the all-frequent blasphemy 
To an indignant patience: and the just 
Still, still must suffer the enforced alliance 
Of men whose fellowship is death and ruin. 

JOHN. 

Why, thou acknowledged Prince of Murderers! 
Captain Assassin! Lord and Chief of Massacre! 
That pourest blood like water, yet dost deem 
That thou canst wash the foul and scarlet stain 
From thy polluted soul, as easily 
As from thy dainty ever-dabhling hands, 
Thou wouldst appease with rite and ordinance. 
And festival, and slavish ceremony. 
And prayers that weary even thestonesthonkneel'st on, 
The God whose image hourly thou effacest 
With mangling and remorseless steel I 'Tis well 
That graves are silent, and that dead men's souls 

429 



420 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Assert not tlie proud privilege thou wouldst give them; 
For if they did, Heaven's vaults would ring so loudly 
With imprecations 'gainst the righteous Simon, 
That they would pluck by force a plague ufion us, 
To which the Roman, and the wasting famine, 
Were soft and healing mercies. 

SIMON. 

Liar and slave .' 
There is no rich libation to the All-Just 
So welcome as the blood of renegades 

And traitors 

MIRIAM {apart.) 
Oh! I dare not listen longer! 
The big drops stand upon his brow ; his voice 
Is faint and fails, and there 's no food at home. 
The night is dark — I '11 go once more, or perish. 

[Departs utiperceived. 

SIMON. 

What, John of Galilee ! because my voice 
Is hoarse with speaking of thy crimes, dost scoff; 
And wag thy head at me, and answer laughter? 
Now, if thy veins run not pure gall, I '11 broach 
Their tide, and prove if all my creed be false ; 
If traitors' reeking blood smell not to heaven 
Like a sweet sacrifice. 

J0H\. 

Why, ay ! the victim 
Is bound to th' horns of th' altar! Strike, I say, 
He waits thee — Strike ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Hold, Chiefs of Israel! 
Just Simon ! valiant John ! once more I dare 
To cast myself between you, the High-Priest, 
Who by his holy office calls on you 
To throw aside your trivial private wrongs. 
And vindicate offence more rank and monstrous. 
Avenge your God! and then avenge yourselves! 
The Temple is polluted — Israel's Lord 
Mock'd in his presence. Prayers even thence have 

risen, 
Prayers from the jealous holy Sanctuary, 
Even to the Crucified Man our fathers slew. 

JEWS. 

The Crucified ! the Man of Nazareth ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

This morn, as wont, our maidens had gone up 

To chant their suppliant hymn ; and they had raised 

The song that Israel on the Red Sea shore 

Took up triumphant ; and they closed the strain, 

That, like th' Egyptian and his car-borne host. 

The billows of Heaven's wrath might overwhelm 

The Gentile foe, and so preserve Jerusalem ; 

When at the close and fall a single voice 

Linger'd upon the note, with, " Be it done 

Through Jesus Christ, thine only Son." 

My spirit shrank within me ; horror-struck, 

I listen'd ; all was silence ! Then again 

I look'd upon the veiled damsels, all 

With one accord took up the svv'elling strain 

To him that triumph'd gloriously. I turn'd 

To the Ark and Mercy Seat, and then again 

J heard that single, soft, melodious voice, 



" Lord of Mercies, be it done. 
Through Jesus Christ, thine only Son." 
Here, then, assembled Lords of Israel, 
Whoever be the victim, I demand her ; 
Your wisdom must detect, your justice wreak 
Fit punishment upon the accursed sacrilege. 

SALONE (apart.) 
Miriam! Miriam! Ha!— She 's fled.— Guilt! Guilt 
Prophetic of the damning accusation 
It doth deserve! Apostate! 'twere a sin 
Against Jerusalem and Heaven to spare thee ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

I do commend you, brethren, for your silence! 
I see the abhorrence labouring in your hearts. 
Too deep and too infuriate for words. 

SIMON. 

Now, if it were my child, my Sarah's child. 

The child that she died blessing, I 'd not sleep 

Till the stones crush her. Yea, thus, thus I 'd grasp. 

And hurl destruction on her guilty head. 

Here, John, I pledge mine hand to thee, till vengeance 

Seize on the false and insolent blasphemer. 

(SALONE, half unveiled, rusldng forward, stops irre- 
solutely.) 
Their eyes oppress me — my heart chokes my voice — 

."^nd my lips cling together Oh ! my mother, 

Upon thy death-bed didst thou not beseech us 
To love each other! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Veiled maid, what art thou ? 

SALONE. 

Off"! off"! the blood of Abraham swells within me — 
As I cast down my veil, I cast away 
All fear, all tenderness, all fond remorse. 
It is too good a death for one so guilty 

To perish for Jerusalem 

[She stands unveiled. 

SIMON. 

Salone ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

The admired daughter of the noble Simon ! 

VOICE AT A DISTANCE. 

Israel! Israel! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Who is this, that speaks 
With such a thrilling accent of command ? 

VOICE. 

Israel ! Israel ! ' 

JEWS. 

Back! give place! the Prophet! 
ABiRAM {the false prophet.) 
Israel ! Israel ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Peace ! 

ABIRAM. 

Ay ! peace, I say ! 
The wounds are bound ; the blood is stanch'd ! and 

hate 
Is turn'd to love! and rancorous jealousy 
To kindred concord ! and the clashing swords 
To bridal sounds! the fury of the feud 
To revel and the jocund nuptial feast. 

430 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



421 



HIGH-PRIBST. 

What means Abiram ? 

ABIRAM. 

U is from on High. 
Brave Amariah, son of John ! Salone, 
Daughter of Simon! thus I join their hands; 
And thus I bless the wedded and the beautiful ! 
And thus I bind the Captains of Jerusalem 
In the strong bonds of unity and peace. — 

And where is now the wine for the bridegroom's rosy 

cup? (16) 
And the tabret and the harp for the chamber of the 

bride ? 
Lo! bright as burnish'd gold the lamps are sparkling up. 
And the odours of the incense are breathing fsir and 

wide ; 
And the maidens' feet are glancing in the virgins' 

wedding train ; 
And the sad streets of Salem are alive with joy again ! 

TtlE JEWS. 

Long live Salone ! Long live Amariah ! 

SALONE. 

Am I awake ? — how came I here unveil'd 
Among the bold and glaring eyes of men ? 

THE JEWS. 

Long live Salone! Long live Amariah!- 

SIMON. 

He speaks from Heaven — accept'st thou, John of 

Galilee, 
Heaven's terms of peace ? 

JOH.V. 

From earth or heaven, I care not — 
What says my boy ? 

AMARIAH. 

Oh I rather let me ask. 
What says the maid ? Oh! raven-hair'd Salone, 
Why dost thou crowd thy jealous veil around thee? 
Look on me freely ; beauteous in thy freedom ; 
As when this morn I saw thee, on our walls. 
Thy hair cast back, and bare thy marble brow 
To the bright wooing of the enamour'd sun : 
They were my banner, Beauty, those dark locks; 
And in the battle 't was my pride, my strength. 
To think that eyes like thine were gazing on me. 

SALOXE. 

Oh no, thou saw'st me not ! — Oh, Amariah ! 

What Prophets speak must be fulfiU'd. 'T were vain 

T' oppose at once the will of Heaven — and thee. 

JOH\. 

Now, if there be enough of generous food, 
A cup of wine in all the wasted city, 
We '11 have a jocund revel. 

SIMON. 

Prophet Abiram, 
I have a question for thy secret ear. 
Thou man, whose eyes are p irged from earthly film, 
Seest thou no further down the tide of time ? 
Beyond this bridal nothing ? — Answer me ! 
For it should seem this designated union 
Of two so noble, this conspiring blood 



Of Israel's chiefs, portends some glorious fruit 
To ripea in the deep futurity. 

ABIRAM. 

Simon, what meanest thou ? 

SIMON. 

The Hope of Israel ! 
Shall it not dawn from darkness ? Oh ! begot 
In Judah's hour of peril, and conceived 
In her extreme of agony, what birth 
So meet and fitting lor the great Discomfiter ? 

ABIRAM. * 

A light falls on me. 

SIMON. 

Prophet! what shall dye 
The robe of purple with so bright a grain 
As Roman blood ? Before our gates are met 
The lords of empire, and our walls may laugh 
Their siege to scorn, even till the Branch be grown 
That 's not yet planted — Yea, the wrested sceptre 

Of earth, the sole dominion Back, Abiram, 

To thy prophetic cave — kneel, pray, fast, weep; 
And thou shall bless us with far nobler tidings, 
And we will kiss thy feet, thou Harbinger 
Of Judah's glory 

Now lead on the Bridal. 
Blow trumpets ! shout, exulting Israel ! 
Shout Amariah ! shout again Salone ! 
Shout louder yet, the Bridegroom and the Bride! 
Rejoice, O Zion, now on all thy hills; 
City of David, through thy streets rejoice ! 



Fountain of Siloe — Night — An approaching Storm. 

MIRIAM. 

He is not here ! and yet he might have known 
That the cold gloom of the tempestuous skies 
Could never change a faithful heart like mine. 
He might have known me not a maid to love 
Under the melting moonlight, and soft stars, 
And to fail off in darkness and in storm. 
Ah ! seal'd for ever be my slanderous lips! 
Alas! it is the bitterest pang of misery 
That it will force from us unworthy doubts 
Of the most tried and true. Oh, Javan, Javan ! 
It was but now that with presumptuous heart 
I did repine against the all-gracious heavens. 
That wrapt me round in charitable darkness. 
Because my erring feet had well-nigh miss'd 
Tlieir known familiar path. 

Javan, Miriam. 

JAVAN. 

What 's there ? I see 
A white and spirit-like gleaming — It must be ! 
I see her not, yet feel that it is Miriam, 
By the indistinct and dimly visible grace 
That haunts her motions; by her tread, that falls 
Trembling and soft like moonlight on the earth. 
What dost thou here ? now — now ? where every mo- 
ment 
The soldiers prowl, and meeting sentinels 
Challenge each other ? I have walch'd for thee 
As prisoners for the hour of their deliverance ; 

431 



422 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet did I pray, love! that thou mightst not come, 
Even that thou mightst be faithless to thy vows. 

Rather than meet this peril Miriam, 

Why art thou here ? 

MIRIAM. 

Does Javan ask me why ? 
Because I saw my (iilher pine with hunger — 
Because 1 never hope to come again. 

JAVAN. 

Too true ! this night, this fata! night, if Heaven 
Strike not their conquering host, the foe achieves 
His tardy victory. Round the shattered walls 
There is the smother'd hum of preparation. 
With stealthy footsteps, and with muffled arms. 
Along the trenches, round the lowering engines, 
I saw them gathering: men stood whispering men, 
As though revealing some portentous secret ; 
At every sound cried. Hist I and look'd reproachfully 
Upon each other. Now and then a light 
From some far part of the encircling camp 
Breaks suddenly out, and then is quench'd as sud- 
denly. 
The forced unnatural quiet, that pervades 
Those myriads of arm'd and sleepless warriors. 
Presages earthly tempest; as yon clouds, 
That in their mute and ponderous blackness hang 
Over our heads, a tumult m the skies — 
The earth and heaven alike are terribly calm. 

MIRIAM. 

Alas ! alas ! give me the food ! let's say 
Farewell as fondly as a dying man 
Should say it to a dying woman ! 

JAVAN. 

Miriam! 
It shall not be. He, He hath given command. 
That when the signs are manifest, we should flee (17) 
Unto the mountains.* 

MIRIAM. 

Javan, tempt me not: 
My soul is weak. Hast thou not said of old 
How dangerous 'tis to wrest the words of truth 
To the excusing our own fond desires ? 
There's an eternal mandate, unrepeal'd, 
Nor e'er to be rescinded, " Love thy father!" 
God speaks with many voices ; one in the heart, 
True though instinctive ; one in the Holy Law, 
The first that's coupled with a gracious promise. 

JAVAN. 

Yet are his words, " Leave all, and follow me. 
Thou shall not love thy father more than me" — 
Darest disobey them ? 

MIRIAM. 

Javan, while I tread 
The path of duty I am following him; 
And, loving whom I ought to love, love him. 

JAVAN. 

If thoii couldst .save or succour — if this night 
Were not the last — 

MIRIAM. 

Oh, dearest, think awhile ! 
It matters little at what hour o' the day 
The righteous falls asleep ; death cannot come 



' Matt, xxiv, 16. 



t Matt. X, 7. 



To him untimely who is fit to die: 

The less of this cold world, the more of heaven; 

The briefer life, the earlier immortality. 

But every moment to the man of guilt 

And bloodshed, one like ah me! like my father, 

Each instant rescued from the grasp of death, 

May be a blessed chosen opportunity 

For the everlasting mercy — Think what 'tis 

For time's minutest period to delay 

An infidel's death, a murderer's 

JAVAN. 

Go! go, dearest! 
If I were dying, I would have thee go — 
Oh! thou inspher'd, unearthly loveliness! 
Danger may gather round thee, like the clouds 
Round one of heaven's pure stars, thou'lt hold within 
Thy course unsullied. 

MIRIAM. 

This is worse than all ! 
Oh! mock not thus with wild extravagant praise 
A very weak and most unworthy girl. 
Javan, one last, one parting word with thee — 
There have been times, when 1 have said light words, 
As maidens use, that made thy kind heart bleed ; 
There have been moments, when I have seen thee 

sad. 
And I have cruelly sported with thy sadness: 
I have been proud, oh! very proud, to hear 
Thy fond lips dwell on beauty, when thine eyes 
Were on this thin and wasted form of mine. 
Forgive me, oh ! forgive me, for I deem'd 
The hour would surely come, when the fond bride 
Might well repay the maiden's waywardness. 
Oh! look not thus o'erjoy'd, for if I thought 
We e'er could meet again this side the grave, 
Trust me, I had been charier of my tenderness. 
Yet one word more — I do mistrust thee, Javan, 
Though coldly thou dost labour to conceal it ; 
Thou hast some frantic scheme to risk for mine 
Thy precious life — Beseech thee, heap not thou 
More sor-ows on the o'erburthen'd. 

JAVAN. 

Think'st thou, then, 
I have no trust but in this arm of flesh 
To save thee ? 

MIRIAM. 

Oh, kind Javan I pray not thou 
That I may live, that is too wild a prayer; 
That I may die unspotted, be thy suit 
To Him who loves the spotless. 

JAVAN. 

Ha— the thought.' 
It pierces like a sword info my heart ! 

MIRIAM. 

And think'st thou mine unwounded? — Fare thee 

well! 
Our presence does but rack each other's souls. 
Farewell ! and if thou lovest when 1 am dead. 
May she be to thee, all I hoped to be. 

JAVAN. 

Go— go — 

MIRIAM. 

Thou bidst me part, and yet detain'st me 
With clinging grasp — ah no, 't is 1 clasp thee. 

432 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



423 



I knew not that my fond unconscious hand 
Had been so bold — Oh, Javan ! ere the morn 
'Twill have no power t' offend thee — 'twill be cold. 

JAVAN. 

Offend me! Miriam, when thou'rt above 
Among the Saints, and I in the sinful world, 
How terrible 't will be if I should forfeit 
The hope of meeting thee in blessedness. 

MIRIAM. 

Forfeit! with faith like thine? 

JAVAN. 

Thou well rebukest me. 
To thy Redeemer I commit thee now, 
To leave thee here, or take thee to himself. 
Farewell, farewell ! the life of this sad heart, — 

Dearer than life 1 look for thee, and lo ! 

Nought but blind darkness 

Save where yon mad city, 
As though at peace and in luxurious joy. 
Is hanging out her bright and festive lamps. 

There have been tears from holier eyes than mine 
Pour'd o'er thee, Zion ! yea, the Son of Man 
This thy devoted hour foresaw and wept. 
And I — can I refrain from weeping? Yes, 
My country, in thy darker destiny 
Will I awhile forget mine own distress. 

I feel it now, the sad, the coming hour; 

The signs are full, and never shall the sun 
Shine on the cedar roofs of Salem more ; 

Her tale of splendour now is told and done : 
Her wine-cup of festivity is spilt. 
And all is o'er, her grandeur and her guilt. 

Oh ! fair and favour'd city, where of old 
The balmy airs were rich with melody. 
That led her pomp beneath the cloudless sky 

In vestments flaming with the orient gold ; 

Her gold is dim, and mute her music's voice ; 

The Heathen o'er her perish'd pomp rejoice. 

How stately then was every palra-deck'd street, 
Down which the maidens danced with tinkling feet ; 

How proud the elders in the lofty gate ! 
How crowded all her nation's solemn feasts 
With white-robed Leviles and high-mitred Priests; 

How gorgeous all her Temple's sacred state! 
Her streets are razed, her maidens sold for slaves. 
Her gates thrown down, her elders in their graves ; 
Her feasts are holden 'mid the Gentile's scorn. 
By stealih her Priesthood's holy garments worn ; 
And where her Temple crown'd the glittering rock. 
The wandering shepherd folds his evening flock. 

When shall the work, the work of death begin ? 
When come the avengers of proud Judah's sin ? 
Aceldama! accursed and guilty ground, 
Gird all the city in thy dismal bound, 

Her price is paid, and she is sold like thou ; 
Let every ancient monument and tomb 
Enlarge the border of its vaulted gloom. 

Their spacious chambers all are wanted now. 

But nevermore shall yon lost city need 
Those secret places lor her future dead ; 
36 



Of all her children, when this night is pass'd. 
Devoted Salem's darkest, and her last, 
Of all her children none is left to her, 
Save those whose house is in the sepulchre. 

Yet, guilty city, who shall mourn for thee? 

Shall Christian voices wail thy devastation? 
Look down! look down, avenged Calvary, 

Upon thy late yet dreadful expiation. 
Oh ! long foretold, though slow accomplish'd fate, 
" Her house is left unto her desolate ;" 
Proud CcBsar's ploughshare o'er her ruins driven, 
Fulfils at length the tardy doom of heaven; 
The wrathful vial's drops at length are pour'd 
On the rebellious race that crucified their Lord ! 



Streets of Jerusalem — Night. 
Many Jews meeting. 

FIRST JEW. 

Saw ye it, father ! saw ye what the city 

Stands gazing at ? As I pass'd through the streets ' 

There were pale women wandering up and down; 

And on the house-tops there were haggard faces 

Turn'd to the heavens, where'er the ghostly light 

Fell on them. Even the prowling plunderers, 

That break our houses for suspected food. 

Their quick and stealthful footsteps check, and gasp 

In wonder. They, ihat in deep weariness, 

Or wounded in the battle of the morn, 

Had cast themselves to slumber on the stones. 

Lift up their drowsy heads, and languidly 

Do shudder at the sight. 

SECOND JEW. 

What sight ? what say'st thou f 

FIRST JEW. 

The star, the star, the fiery-tressed star. 
That all this fatal year hath hung in the heavens 
Above us, gleaming like a bloody sword. 
Twice hath it moved. Men cried aloud, " A tem- 
pest !" 
And there was blackness, as of thunder clouds: 
But yet that angry sign glared fiercely through them, 
And the third time, with slow and solemn motion, 
'Twas shaken and brandish'd. 

SECOND JEW. 

Timorous boy ! thou speak'st 
As though these things were strange. Why now 

we sleep 
With prodigies ablaze in all the heavens, 
And the earth teeming with portentous signs. 
As sound as when the moon and constant stars 
Beam'd quietly upon the slumbering earth 
Their customary fires. Dost thou remember. 
At Pentecost, when all the land of Judah 
Stood round the Altar, at the dead of night, 
A Light broke out, and all the Temple shone 
With the meteorous glory I 't was not like 
The light of sun or moon, but it was clear 
And bright as either, only that it wither'd 
Men's faces to a hue like death. 

433 



424 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THIRD JEW. 

'T was strange ! 
And, if I err not, on that very day, 
The Priest led forth the spotless sacrifice, 
And as he led it, it fell down, and cast 
Its young upon the sacred pavement. 

FOURTH JEW. 

Brethren, 
Have ye forgot the eve, when war broke out 
Even in the heavens? all the wide northern sky 
-Was rocking with arm'd men and fiery chariots. 
With an abrupt and sudden noiselessness, 
Wildly, confusedly they cross'd and mingled, 
As when the Red Sea waves dash'd to and fro 
The crazed cars of Pharaoh 

THIRD JEW. 

Who comes here 
In his white robe so hastily ? 

FIRST JEW. 

'T is the Levite, 
The Holy Aaron. 

LEVITE. 

Brethren ! Oh, my Brethren! 

THE JEW. 

Speak, Rabbi, all our souls thirst for thy words. 

LEVITE. 

But now within the Temple, as I minister'd. 
There was a silence round us; the wild sounds 
Of the o'erwearied war had fallen asleep. 
A silence, even as though all earth were fix'd 
Like us in adoration, when the gate. 
The Eastern gate, with all its ponderous bars 
And bolts of iron, started wide asunder, 
And all the strength of man doth vainly toil 
To close the stubborn and rebellious leaves. 

FIRST JEW. 

What now ? 

ANOTHER JEW. 

What now ? why all things sad and monstrous. 
The Prophets stand aghast, and vainly seek. 
Amid the thronging and tumultuous signs 
Which crowd this wild disastrous night, the intent 
Of the Eternal. Wonder breaks o'er wonder, 
As clouds roll o'er each other in the skies; 
And Terror, wantoning with man's perplexity. 
No sooner, hath infix'd the awed attention 
On some strange prodigy, than it straight distracts it 
To a stranger and more fearful. 

THIRD JEW. 

Hark? what's there? 
Fresh horror! 

{At a distance.) 
To the sound of timbrels sweet, (18) 
Moving slow our solemn feet, 
We have borne thee on the road, 
To the virgin's blest abode ; 
With thy yellow torches gleaming. 
And thy scarlet mantle streaming, 
And the canopy above 
Swaying as we slowly move. 

Thou hast left the joyous feast, 

And the mirth and wine have ceased ; 



And now we set thee down before 
The jealously-unclosing door ; 
That the favour'd youth admits 
Where the veiled virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear, 
Waiting our soft tread to hear ; 
And the music's brisker din, 
At the bridegroom's entering in, 
Entering in a welcome guest 
To the chamber of his rest. 

SECOND JEW. 

It is the bridal song of Amariah 

And fair Salone. In the house of Simon 

The rites are held ; nor bears the Bridegroom home 

His plighted Spouse, but there doth deck his chamber; 

These perilous times dispensing with the rigour 

Of ancient usage 

VOICE WITHIN. 

Woe ! woe ! woe ! 

FIRST JEW. 

Alas! 
The son of Hananiah ? is 't not he ? 

THIRD JEW. 

Whom said'st ? 

SECOND JEW. 

Art thou a stranger in Jerusalem, 
That thou rememberest not that fearful man ? 

FOURTH JEW. 

Speak! speak! we know not all. 

SECOND JEW. 

Why thus it was : 
A rude and homely dresser of the vine. 
He had come up to the Feast of Tabernacles, 
When suddenly a spirit fell upon him. 
Evil or good we know not. Ever since 
(And now seven years are past since it befell, 
Our city then being prosperous and at peace,) 
He hath gone wandering through the darkling streets 
At midnight under the cold quiet stars ; 
He hath gone wandering through the crowded market 
At noonday under the bright blazing sun. 
With that one ominous cry of " Woe, woe, woe !" 
Some scoff 'd and mock'd him, some would give him 

food ; 
He neither cursed the one, nor thank'd the other. 
The Sanhedrim bade scourge him, and myself 
Beheld him lash'd, till the bare bones stood out 
Through the maim'd flesh, still, still he only cried, 
Woe to the City, till his patience wearied 
The angry persecutors. When they freed him, 
'T was still the same, the incessant Woe, woe, woe. 
But when our siege began, awhile he ceased. 
As though his prophecy were fulfill'd ; till now 
We had not heard his dire and boding voice. 

WITHIN. 

Woe ! woe ! woe ! 

JOSHUA, the Son of Hananiah. 
Woe ! woe ! 
A voice from the East! a voice from the West! 
From the four winds a voice against Jerusalem ! 
A voice against the Temple of the Lord ! 
A voice against the Bridegrooms and the Brides! 

434 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



425 



A voice against all people of the land ! 
Woe! woe! woe! 

SECOND JEW. 

They are the very words, the very voice 

Which we have heard so long. And yet, methinks, 

There is a mournful triumph in the tone 

Ne'er heard before. His eyes, that were of old 

Fix'd on the earth, now wander all abroad, 

As though the tardy consummation 

Afflicted hira with wonder Hark ! again. 

CHORUS OF MAIDENS. 

Now the jocund song is thine, 
Bride of David's kingly line ! 
How thy dove-like bosom trembleth, 
And thy shrouded eye resembleth 
Violets, when the dews of eve 
A moist and tremulous glitter leave 
On the bashful sealed lid ! 
Close within the bride-veil hid. 
Motionless thou sit'st, and mute ; 
Save that at the soft salute 
Of each entering maiden friend 
Thou dost rise and softly bend. 

Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! 
The door unfolds, — 'tis he, 'tis he. 
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him. 
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him. 
Thou shall give a fonder meeting, 
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting. 

JOSHUA. 

Woe ! woe ! 

A voice from the East ! a voice from the West ! 

From the four winds a voice against Jerusalem ! 

A voice against the Temple of the Lord ! 

A voice against the Bridegrooms and the Brides ! 

A voice against all people of the land ! 
Woe ! woe ! [Bursts away, followed by Second Jew 

FIRST JEW. 

Didst speak ? 

THIRD JEW. 

No. 

FOURTH JEW. 

Look'd he on tis as he spake ? 
FIRST JEW {to the Second returning.) 
Thou foUow'dst hira ! what now ? 

SECOND JEW. 

'T was a True Prophet .' 

THE JEWS. 

Wherefore ? Where went he ? 

SECOND JEW. 

To the outer wall ; 
And there he suddenly cried out and sternly, 
" A voice against the son of Hananiah ! 
Woe, woe !" and at the instant, whether struck 
By a chance stone from the enemy's engines, down 
He sank and died ! 

THIRD JEW. 

There 's some one comes this way — 
Art sure he died indeed ? 



LEVITE. 

It is the High-Priest. 
The ephod gleams through the pale lowering night; 
The breastplate gems, and the pure mitre-gold. 
Shine lamplike, and the bells that fringe his robe 
Chime faintly. 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Israel, hear ! I do beseech you. 
Brethren, give ear ! — 

SECOND JEW. 

Who 's he that will not hear 
The words of God's High-Priest ? 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

It was but now 
I sate within the Temple, in the court 
That's consecrate to mine office — Your eyes wander — 

JEWS. 

Go on !— 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Why hearken, then — Upon a sudden 
The pavement seem'd to swell beneath my feet, 
And the Veil shiver'd, and the pillars rock'd. 
And there, within the very Holy of Holies, 
There, from behind the winged Cherubim, 
Where the Ark stood, a noise, hurried and tumultuous, 
Was heard, as when a king with all his host 
Doth quit his palace. And anon, a voice. 
Or voices, half in grief half anger, yet 
Nor human grief nor anger, even it seem'd 
As though the hoarse and rolling thunder spake 
With the articulate voice of man, it said, 
" Let US depart !" 

JEWS. 

Most terrible ! What follow'd ? 
Speak on ! speak on ! 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

I know not why, I felt 
As though an outcast from the abandon'd Temple, 
And fled. 

JEWS. 

Oh God I and Father of our Fathers, 
Dost thou desert us ? 

CHORUS OF YOUTHS AND MAIDENS. 

Under a happy planet art thou led, 
Oh, chosen Virgin ! to thy bridal bed. 
So put thou off thy soft and bashful sadness, 
And wipe away the timid maiden tear, — 
Lo! redolent with the Prophet's oil of gladness, 
And mark'd by heaven, the Bridegroom Youth is 
here. 

FIRST JEW. 

Hark — hark ! an armed tread ! 

SECOND JEW. 

The bold Ben Cathla. 

BEN CATHLA. 

Ay, ye are met, all met, as in a mart, 
T' exchange against each other your dark tales 
Of this night's fearful prodigies. I know it. 
By the inquisitive and half-suspicious looks 
With which ye eye each other, ye do wish 
To disbelieve all ye have heard, and yet 
Ye dare not. If ye have seen the moon unsphered, 

435 



426 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And the stars fall ; if the pale sheeted ghosts 
Have met you wandering, and have pointed at you 
With ominous designation ; yet I scoff 
Your poor and trivial terrors — Know ye Michoi? 

JEWS. 

Michol ! 

BEN CATHLA. 

The noble lady, she whose fathers 
Dwelt beyond Jordan 

SECOND JEW. 

Yes, we know her, 
The tender and the delicate of women, (19) 
That would not set her foot upon the ground 
For delicacy and very tenderness. 

BEN CATHLA. 

The same ! — We had gone forth in quest of food : 
And we had enter'd many a house, where men 
Were preying upon meagre herbs and skins ; 
And some were sating upon loathsome things 
Unutterable, the ravening hunger. Some, 
Whom we had plunder'd oft, laugh'd in their agony 
To see us baffled. At her door she met us. 
And " We have feasted together heretofore," 
She said, " most welcome warriors !" and she led us. 
And bade us sit like dear and honour'd guests. 
While she made ready. Some among us wonder'd, 
And some spake joeringly, and thank'd the lady 
That she had thus with provident care reserved 
The choicest banquet for our scarcest days. 
But ever as she busily minister'd. 
Quick, sudden sobs of laughter broke from her. 
At length the vessel's covering she raised up, 
And there it lay 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

What lay ? — Thou 'rt sick and pale. 

BEN CATHLA. 

By earth and heaven, the remnant of a child ! 

A human child ! Ay, start! so started we — 

Whereat she shriek'd aloud, and clapp'd her hands, 
" O! dainty and fastidious appetites! 
The mother feasts upon her babe, and strangers 
Loathe the repast" — and then — " My beautiful child !" 
The treasure of my womb ! my bosom's joy !" 
And then in her cool madness did she spurn us 
Out of her doors. — Oh still — oh still I hear her, 
And I shall hear her till my day of death. 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Oh, God of Mercies! this was once thy city ! 

CHORUS. 

Joy to thee, beautiful and bashful Bride! 

Joy ! for the thrills of pride and joy become thee ; 

Thy curse of barrenness is taken from thee, 
And thou shalt see the rosy infant sleeping 

Upon the snowy fountain of thy breast ; 

And thou shalt feel how mothers' hearts are blest 
By hours of bliss for moments' pain and weeping. 

Joy to thee ! 

TTie abme, Simon, John. 

SI.MON. 

Away ! what do ye in our midnight streets 

Go sleep! go sleep! or we shall have to lash you. 



When the horn summons to the morning's war, 
From out your drowsy beds Away! I say. 

HIGH-PRIEST. 

Simon, thou knowst not the dark signs abroad. 

JOHN. 

Ay ! is 't not fearful and most ominous 

That the sun shines not at deep midnight ? Mark me, 

Ye men with gasping lips and shivering limbs, 

Thou mitred priest, and ye misnamed warriors, 

If ye infect with your pale aguish fears 

Our valiant city, we 'II nor leave you limbs 

To shake, nor voices to complain — T' your homes. 

Simon, John. 

JOHN. 

In truth, good Simon, I am half your proselyte ; 
Your angels, that do bear such excellent wine. 
Might shake a faith more firm than ours. 

SIMON. 

Brave John, 

My soul is jocund. Expectation soars 

Before mine eyes, like to a new-fledged eagle, 

And stoopeth from her heavens with palms ne'er worn 

By brows of Israel. Glory mounts with her, 

Her deep seraphic trumpet swelling loud 

O'er Zion's gladdening towers. 

JOHN. 

Why, then, to sleep. 
This fight by day, and revel all the night. 
Needs some repose — I '11 to my bed — Farewell ! 

SIMON. 

Brave John, farewell ! and I '11 to rest, and dream 
Upon the coming honours of to-morrow. 



MIRIAM. 

To-morrow! will that morrow dawn upon thee? 
I 've warn'd them, I have lifted up my voice 
As loud as 't were an angel's, and well nigh 
Had I betray'd my secret: they but scofTd, 
And ask'd how long I had been a prophetess? 
But that injurious John did foully taunt me. 
As though I envied my lost sister's bridal. 
And when I clung to my dear fiither's neck. 
With the close fondness of a last embrace. 
He shook me from him. 

But, ah rne! how strange! 
This moment, and the hurrying streets were full 
As at a festival, now all 's so silent 
That I might hear the footsteps of a child. 
The sound of dissolute mirth hath ceased, the lamps 
Are spent, the voice of music broken off 
No watchman's tread comes from the silent wall. 
There are nor lights nor voices in the towers. 
The hungry have given up the idle search 
For food, the gazers on the heavens are gone, 
Even fear's at rest — all still as in a sepulchre! 
And thou liest sleeping, oh Jerusalem ! 
A deeper slumber could not fall upon thee 
If thou wert desolate of all thy children, 
And thy razed streets a dwelling-place for owls. 

I do mistake ! this is the Wilderness, 
The Desert, where winds pass and make no sound. 
And not the populous city, the besieged 

436 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



427 



And overhung with tempest. Why, my voice, 
My motion, breaks upon the oppressive stillness 
Like a forbidden and disturbing sound. 
The very air's asleep, my feeblest breathing 

Is audible — I '11 think my prayers — and then 

Ila ! 't IS the thunder of the Living God ! 

It peals! it crashes! it comes down in fire ! 
Again ! it is the engine of the foe. 

Our walls are dust before it Wake — oh wake — 

Oh Israel ! — Oh Jerusalem, awake ! 
Why shoiildst thou wake ? thy foe is in the heavens. 
Yea, thy judicial slumber weighs thee down, 
And gives thee, oh ! lost city, to the Gentile 
Defenceless, unresisting. 

It rolls down, 
As though the Everlasting raged not now 
Against our guilty Zion, but did mingle 
The universal world in our destruction ; 
And all mankind were destined for a sacrifice 
On Israel's funeral pile. Oh Crucified ! 
Here, here, where thou didst suffer, I beseech thee 
Even by thy Cross! 

Hark ! now in impious rivalry 
Man thunders. In the centre of our streets 
The Gentile trumpet, the triumphant shouts 
Of onset; and I, — F, a trembling girl 
Alone, awake, abroad. 

Oh, now ye wake. 
Now ye pour forth, and hideous Massacre, 
Loathing his bloodless conquest, jo}'s to see you 
Thus naked and unarm'd — But where 's my father? 
Upon his couch in dreams of future glory. 
Oh ! where 's my sister ? in her bridal bed. 



Many Jews. 

FIRST JEW. 

To the Temple! To the Temple! Israeli Israel ! 
Your walls are on the earth, your houses burn 
Like fires amid the autumnal olive grounds. 
The Gentile 's in the courts of the Lord's house. 
To the Temple! save or perish with the Temple! 

SECOND JEW. 

To the Temple ! haste, oh all ye circumcised ! 
Stay not for wife or child, for gold or treasure ! 
Pause not for light! the heavens are all on fire, 
The Universal City burns ! 

THIRD JEW. 

Arms! Arms! 
Our women fall like doves into the nets 
Of the fowler, and they dash upon the stones 
Our innocent babes. Arms! Arms! before we die 
Let 's reap a bloody harvest of revenge. 
To the Temple ! 

FOURTH JEW. 

Simon ! lo, the valiant Simon. 
The above, Simon. 

SIMON. 

He comes ! he comes ! the black night blackens with 

him, 
And the winds groan beneath his chariot wheels — 
He comes from heaven, the Avenger of Jerusalem I 

36* 3D 



Ay, strike, proud Roman! fall, thou useless wall ! 
And vail your heads, ye towers, that have discharged 
Your brief, your fruitless duty of resistance. 
I've heard thee long, fierce Gentile! th' earthquake 

shocks 
Of thy huge engines smote upon my soul. 
And ray soul scorn'd ihem. Oh! and hear'st not thou 
One mightier than thyself that shakes the heavens ? 
Oh pardon, that I thought that He, v^hose coming 
Is promised and reveal'd, would calmly wait 
The tardy throes of human birth. Messiah, 
I know thee now, I know yon lightning fire. 
Thy robe of glory, and thy steps in heaven 
Incessant thundering. 

I had brought mine arms. 
Mine earthly arms, my breastplate and my sword. 
To cover and defend me — Oh ! but ihou 
Art jealous, nor endurest that human arm 
Intrude on thy deliverance. I forswear them, 
I cast them from me. Helmless, with nor shield 
Nor sword, I stand, and in my nakedness 
Wait thee, victorious Roman 

JEWS. 

To the Temple ! 

SIMON. 

Ay, well thou say'st, " to the Temple" — there 't will be 
Most visible. In his own house the Lord 
Will shine most glorious. Shall we not behold 
The Fathers bursting from their yielding graves. 
Patriarchs and Priests, and Kings and Prophets, met 
A host of spectral watchmen, on the towers 
Of Zion to behold the full accomplishing 
Of every Type and deep Prophetic word ? 

Ay, to the Temple! thither will I too, 
•There bask in all the fulness of the day 
That breaks at length o'er the long night of Judah. 



Chorus, of Jeii.'sjlying ioicards the temple. 
Fly! fly! fly! 
Clouds, not of incense, from the Temple rise, 
And there are altar-fires, but not of sacrifice. 

And there are victims, yet nor bulls nor goats ; 
And Priests are there, but not of Aaron's kin ; 
And he that doth the murtherous rite begin, 

To stranger Gods his hecatomb devotes ; 
His hecatomb of Israel's chosen race 
All foully slaughter'd in their Holy Place. 
Break into joy, ye barren, that ne'er bore ! (20) 

Rejoice, ye breasts, where ne'er sweet infant hung! 

From you, from you no smiling babes are wrung, 
Ye die, but not amid your children's gore. 
But howl and weep, oh ye that are %vith child, 

Ye on whose bosoms unvvean'd babes are laid ; 
The sword that 's with the mother's blood defiled 

Still with the infant gluts the insatiate blade. 

Fly! fly! fly! 
Fly not, 1 say, for Death is every where. 

To keen-eyed Lust all places are the same : 
There 's not a secret chamber in whose lair 
Our wives can shroud them from th' abhorred 
shame. 

437 



428 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where the sword fails, the fire will find us there, 
All, all is death— the Gentile or the flame. 

On to the Temple ! Brethren, Israel on ! 

Though every slippery street with carnage swims, 
Ho ! spite of famish'd hearts and wounded limbs, 

Still, still, while yet there stands one holy stone, 
Fight for your God, his sacred house to save, 
Or have its blazing ruins for your grave! 



The Streets of Jerusalem. 

MIRIAM. 

Thou hard firm earth, thou wilt not break before me. 

And hide me in thy dark and secret bosom ! 

Ye burning towers, ye fall upon your children 

With a compassionate ruin — not on me — 

Ye spare me only, I alone am mark'd 

And seal'd for life : death cruelly seems to shun me, 

Me, who am readiest and most wish to die. 

Oh! I have sat me by the ghastly slain 

In envy of their state, and wept a prayer 

That I were cold like them, and safe from Ih' hands 

Of the remorseless conqueror. I have fled. 

And fled, and fled, and still I fly the nearer 

To the howling ravagers — they are every where. 

I 've closed mine eyes, and rush'd I know not whither. 

And still are swords and men and furious faces 

Before me, and behind me, and around me. 

But ah ! the shrieks that come from out the dwell- 
ings 
Of my youth's loved companions — every where 
I hear some dear and most familiar voice 
In its despairing frantic agonies. 
Ah me! that I were struck with leprosy. 
That sinful men might loathe me and pass on. 

And I might now have been by that sweet fountain 
Where the winds whisper through the moonlight 

leaves, 
I might have been with Javan there — Off; ofF— 
These are not thoughts for one about to die — 
Oh, Lord and Saviour Christ! 

An Old Man, Miriam. 

OLD MAN. 

Who spake of Christ ? 
What hath that name to do with saving here? 
He 's here, he 's here, the Lord of desolation, 
Begirt with vengeance ! in the fire above, 
A.nd fire below ! in all the blazing city 
Behold him manifest! 

MIRIAM. 

Oh ! aged man 
And miserable, on the verge of the grave 
Thus lingering to behold thy country's ruin 
What know'st thou of the Christ? 

OLD MAN. 

I, I beheld him. 
The Man of Nazareth whom thou mean'st — I saw him 
When he went labouring up the accursed hill. 
Heavily on his scourged and bleeding shoulders 
Press'd the rough cross, and from his crowned brow 
(Crown'd wjth no kingly diadem) the pale blood 



Was shaken ofi; as with a patient pity 
He look'd on us, the infuriate multitude. 

MIRIAM. 

Didst thou not fall and worship? 

OLD MAN. 

I had call'd 
The curse upon my head, my voice had cried 
Unto the Roman, "On us be his blood. 
And on our children!" — and on us it hath been — 
My children and my children's children, all, 
The Gentile sword hath reap'd them one by one. 
And I, the last dry wither'd shock, await 
The gleaning of the slaughterer. 

MIRIAM. 

Couldst thou see 
The Cross, the Agony, and still hard of heart? 

OLD MAN 

Fond child, I tell thee, ere the Cross was raised 
He look'd around him, even in that last anguish, 
With such a majesty of calm compassion. 
Such solemn adjuration to our souls — 
But yet 't was not reproachful, only sad — 
As though our guilt had been the bitterest pang 
Of suflering. And there dwelt about him still, 
About his drooping head and fainting limb, 
A sense of power; as though he chose to die, 
Yet might have shaken oflf the load of death 
Without an effort. Awful breathlessness 
Spread round, too deep and too intense for tears. 

MIRIAM. 

Thou didst believe ? 

OLD MAN. 

Away! Men glared upon me 
As though they did detect my guilty pity ; 
Their voices roar'd around me like a tempest, 
And every voice was howling " Crucify him !" — 
I dared not be alone the apostate child 
Of Abraham 

MIRIAM. 

Ah ! thou didst not join the cry ? 

OLD MAxN. 

Woman, I did, and with a voice so audible 
Men turn'd to praise my zeal. And when the dark- 
ness. 
The noonday darkness, fell upon the earth. 
And the earth's self shook underneath my feet, 
I stood before the Cross, and in my pride 
Rejoiced that I had shaken from my soul 
The soft compunction. 

MIRIAM. 

Ha ! — but now, oh ! now, 
Thou own'st him for the eternal Son of God, 
The mock'd, and scourged, and crown'd and crucified. 
Thou dost believe the blazing evidence 
Of yon fierce flames ! thou bow'st thyself before 
The solemn preacher. Desolation, 
That now on Zion's guilty ruins seated 
Bears horrible witness. 

OLD MAN. 

Maiden, I believe them, 
I dare not disbelieve ; it is my curse. 
My agony, that cleaves to me in death. 

438 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



429 



MIRIAM. 

Oh .' not a curse, it is a gracious blessing — 
Believe, and thou shall live! 

OLD MAN. 

Back, insolent ! 
What ! wouldst thou school these grey hairs, and be- 
come 
Mine age's teacher ? 

MIRIAM. 

Hath not God ordain'd 
Wisdom from babes and sucklings ? 

OLD MAN. 

Back, I say ; 
I have lived a faithful child of Abraham, 
And so will die. 

MIRIAM. 

For ever ! He is gone. 

Yet he looks round, and shakes his hoary head 
In dreadful execration 'gainst himself 

And rae 1 dare not follow him. 

What 's here ? 
It is mine home, the dwelling of my youth. 
O'er which the flames climb up with such fierce haste. 
Lo, lo ! they burst from that house-top, where oft 
My sister and myself have sate and sang 
Our pleasant airs of gladness ! Ah, Salone .' 
Where art thou now? These, these are not the lights 
That should be shining on a marriage-bed. 
Oh ! that I had been call'd to dress thy bier, 
To pour sweet ointments on thy shrouded corpse, 
Rather than thus to weave thee bridal chaplets 
To be so madly worn, so early wither'd ! 
Where art thou ? I dare only wish thee dead. 
Even as I wish myself. 

'Tis she, herself! 
Thank God, she hath not perish'd in the flames ! 
'Tis she — she's here — she'shere — the unfaded crown 
Hanging from her loose tresses, and her raiment 

Only the bridal veil wrapt round her Sister ! 

Oh ! by my mother's blessings on us both. 
Stay, stay and speak to me — Salone ! 

SALONE. 

Thee ! 
'Tis all thy bitter envy, that hath made 
The exquisite music cease, and hath put out 
The gentle lamps, and with a jealous voice 
Hath call'd him from me. 

MIRIAM. 

Seest thou not, Salone, 
The city's all on fire, the foe's around us ? 

SALONE. 

The fire ! the foe ! what 's fire or foe to me ? 
What 's aught but Amariah ? He is mine. 
The eagle-eyed, the noble and the brave, 
The Man of Men, the glory of our Zion, 
And ye have rent him from me. 

MIRIAM. 

Dearest, who ? 

SALONE. 

I tell thee, he was mine, oh ! mine so fondly. 
And I was his — I had begun to dare 
The telling how I loved him — and the night 
It was so rapturously still around us — 



When, even as though he heard a voice, and yet 
There was no sound I heard, he sprung from me 
Unto the chamber-door, and he look'd out 
Into the city 

MIRIAM. 

Well !— Nay, let not fall 

Thy insufficient raiment Merciful Heaven, 

Thy bosom bleeds ! What rash and barbarous hand 
Hath 

SALONE. 

He came back and kiss'd me, and he said — 
I know not what he said — but there was something 
Of Gentile ravisher, and his beauteous bride, — 
Me, me he meant, he call'd me beauteous bride,— 
And he stood o'er me with a sword so bright 
My dazzled eyes did close. And presently, 
Metliotight, he smote me with the sword, but then 
He fell upon my neck, and wept upon me, 
And I felt nothing but his burning tears. 

MIRIAM. 

She faints! Look up, sweet sister! I have stanch'd 
The blood awhile — but her dim wandering eyes 
Are fixing — she awakes — she speaks again. 

SALONE. 

Ah ! brides, they say, should be retired, and dwell 

Within in modest secresy ; yet here 

Am I, a this night's bride, in the open street, 

My naked feet on the cold stones, the wind 

Blowing my raiment off— it 's very cold — 

Oh, Amariah ! let me lay my head. 

Upon thy bosom, and so fall asleep. 

MIRIAM. 

There is no Amariah here — 't is I, 
Thy Miriam. 

SALONE. 

The Christian Miriam! 

MIRIAM. 

Oh ! that thou too wert Christian ! I could give thee 
A cold and scanty baptism of my fears. 
Oh ! shrink not from me, lift not up thy head, 
Thy dying head, from thy loved sister's lap. 

SALONE. 

Off! set me free! the song is almost done. 

The bridegroom 's at the door, and I must meet him. 

Though my knees shake and tremble. If he come, 

And find me sad and cold, as I am now. 

He will not lo\-e me as he did. 

MIRIAM. 

Too true, 
Thou growest cold indeed. 

SALONE. 

Night closes round. 
Slumber is on my soul. If Amariah 
Return with morning, glorious and adorn'd 
In spoil, as he is wont, thou 'It wake me, sister? 

Ah! no, no, no! this is no waking sleep. 

It bursts upon me — Yes, and Simon's daughter. 

The bride of Amariah, may not fear. 

Nor shrink from dying. My half filing spirit 

Comes back, my soft love-melted heart is strong : 

I know it all, in mercy and in love 

Thou'st wounded me lo death — and I will bless thee, 

True lover! noble husband! my last breath 

is thine in blessing — Amariah I — Love! 

439 



430 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And yet thou shouldst have staid to close mine eyes, 
Oh Amariah ! — and an hour ago 
I was a happy bride upon thy bosom, 

And now am Oh God, God ! if he have err'd. 

And should come back again, and find me dead ! 

MIRIAM. 

Oh, God of Mercies ! she is gone an infidel, 

An infidel unrepentant, to thy presence. 

The partner of my cradle and my bed, 

My own, my only sister ! — oh ! but thou, 

Lord, knowest that thou hast not drawn her to thee, 

By making the fond passions of the heart. 

Like mine, thy ministers of soft persuasion. 

She hath not loved a Christian, hath not heard 

From lips, whose very lightest breath is dear, 

Thy words of comfort. 

I will cover her. 
Thy bridal veil is now thy shroud, my sister, 
And long thou wilt not be without a grave. 
Jerusalem will bury all her children 
Ere many hours are past. 

There 's some one comes 

A Gentile soldier 'tis the same who oft 

Hath cross'd me, and I 've fled and 'scap'd him. Now, 

How can I fly, and whither? Will the dead 

Protect me? Ha! whichever way I turn, 

Are others fiercer and more terrible. 

I '11 speak to him, — there 's something in his mien 

Less hideous than the rest. 

Miriam, the Soldier 

MIRIAM. 

Oh ! noble warrior, 
I see not that thy sword is wet with blood : 
And thou didst turn aside lest thou shouldst tread 
Upon a dying man ; and e'en but now. 
When a bold rufllan almost seized on me. 
Thou didst stand forth and scare him from his prey. 
Hast thou no voice ? perhaps thou art deaf too. 
And I am pleading unto closed ears — 

Keep from me ! stand aloof! I am infected. 

Oh ! if the devil, that haunts the souls of men. 
They say, with lawless and forbidden thoughts, 
If he possess thee, here I lift my voice — 
By Jesus Christ of Nazareth, I adjure 
The evil spirit to depart from thee. 

Alas ! r feel thy grasp upon mine arm, 
And I must follow thee. Oh! thou hast surely 
In thine own land, in thine own native home, 
A wife, a child, a sister: think what 'twere 
To have a stranger's violent arms around her. 

Ha ! every where are more — and this man's hand 
Did surely tremble ; at the holy name 
He seem'd to bow his head. I 'II follow thee, 
Let me but kiss the body of my sister. 

My dead lost sister 

Bless thee ! and thou 'It spare me — 
At least thou art less savage than the rest. 
And He that had a virgin mother, He 
Will surely listen to a virgin's prayer. 
There 's hope and strength within my soul ; lead on, 

I '11 follow thee Salone, oh that thou 

Hadst room in thy cold marriage-bed for me ! 



The Front of the Temple. 

SIMOX. 

They fight around the altar, and the dead 

Heap the choked pavement. Israel tramples Israel, 

And Gentile Gentile, rushing where the Temple, 

Like to a pit of frantic gladiators. 

Is howling with the strife of men, that fight not 

For conquest, but the desperate joy of slaying. 

Priests, Levites, women, pass and hurry on 

At least to die within the sanctuary. 

I only wait without — I take my stand 

Here in the vestibule — and though the thunders 

High and aloof o'er the wide arch of heaven 

Hold their calm march, nor deviate to their vengeance, 

On earth in holy patience, Lord, I wait. 

Defying thy long lingering to subdue 

The faith of Simon. 

'T was but now I pass'd 
The corpse of Amariah, that display'd 
In the wild firelight all its wounds, and lay 
Embalm'd in honour. John of Galilee 
Is prisoner; I beheld him fiercely gnashing 
His ponderous chains. Of me they take no heed, 
For I disdain to tempt them to my death, 
And am not arm'd to slay. 

The light within 
Grows redder, broader. 'T is a fire that burns 
To save or to destroy. On Sinai's top. 
Oh Lord ! thou didat appear in flames, the mountain 
Burnt round about thee. Art thou here at length, 
And must I close mine eyes, lest they be blinded 
By the full conflagration of thy presence ? 

Titus, Placidus, Terentius, Soldiers, Simon. 

TITUS. 

Save, save the Temple ! Placidus, Terentius, 
Haste, bid the legions cease to slay ; and quench 
Yon ruining fire. 

Who's this, that stands unmoved 
'Mid slaughter, flame, and wreck, nor deigns to bow 
Before the Conqueror of Jerusalem ? 
What art thou ? 

SIMON. 

Titus, dost thou think that Rome 
Shall quench the fire that burns within yon Temple? 
Ay, when your countless and victorious cohorts. 
Ay, when your Caesar's throne, your Capitol 
Have iiillen before it. 

TITUS. 

Madman, speak ! what art thou ? 

SIMON. 

The uncircumcised have known me heretofore, 
And thou raay'st know hereafter. 

PLACIDUS. 

It is he — 
The bloody Captain of the Rebels, Simon. 
The Chief Assassin. Seize him, round his limbs 
Bind straight your heaviest chains. An unhoped pa- 
geant 
For Caesar's high ovation. We 'II not slay him, 
Till we have made a show to the wives of Rome 
Of the great Hebrew Chieftain. 

440 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



431 



SIMON. 

Knit them close, 
See that ye rivet well their galling links. 

{Holding up the chains.) 
And ye 've no finer flax to gyve rae with ? 

TERENTIUS. 

Burst these, and we will forge thee stronger then. 

SIMON. 

Fool, 't is not yet the hour. 

TITUS. 

Hark ! hark ! the shrieks 
Of those that perish in the flames. Too late 
I came to spare, it wraps the fabric round. 
Fate, Fate, I feel thou 'rt mightier than Caesar, 
He cannot save what thou hast doom'd! Back, Romans, 
Withdraw your angry cohorts, and give place 
To the inevitable ruin. Destiny, 
It is thine own, and Cjesar yields it to thee. 
Lead off the prisoner. 

SIMON. 

Can it be ? the fire 
Destroys, the thunders cease. I '11 not believe, 
And yet how dare I doubt ? 

A moment, Romans. 
Is't then thy will. Almighty Lord of Israel, 
That this thy Temple be a heap of ashes? 
Is 't then thy will, that J, thy chosen Captain, 
Put on the raiment of captivity ? 
By Abraham, our father ! by the Twelve, 
The Patriarch Sons of Jacob ! by the Law, 
In thunder spoken! by the untoueh'd Ark! 
By David, and the Anointed Race of Kings! 
By great Klias, and the gifted Prophets! 
I here demand a sign ! 

'Tis there — I see it 
The fire that rends the Veil! 

We are then of thee 

Abandon'd not abandon'd of ourselves. 

Heap woes upon us, scatter us abroad. 
Earth's scorn and hissing; to the race of men 
A loathsome proverb ; spurn'd by every foot, 
And cursed by every tongue ; our heritage 
And birthright bondage ; and our very brows 
Bearing, like Cain's, the outcast mark of hate : 
Israel will still be Israel, still will boast 
Her fallen Temple, her departed glory ; 
And, wrapt in conscious righteousness, defy 
Earth's utmost hate, and answer scorn with scorn. 



TTie Fountain of Siloe. 
Miriam, the Soldier. 



MIRIAM. 

Here, here — not here — oh ! any where but here- 
Not toward the fountain, not by this lone path. 
If thou wilt bear me hence, I 'II kiss thy feet, 
I 'U call down blessings, a lost virgin's blessings, 
Upon thy head. Thou hast hurried me along. 
Through darkling street, and over smoking ruin. 
And yet there seem'd a soft solicitude. 
And an oflicious kindness in thy violence — 
But I 've not heard thy voice. 



Oh, strangely cruel ! 
And wilt thou make me sit even on this stone. 
Where I have sate so oft, when the calm moonlight 
Lay in its slumber on the slumbering fountain ? 
Ah! where art thou, thou that wert ever with me, 
Oh Javan ! Javan ! 

THE SOLDIER 

When was Javan call'd 
By Miriam, that Javan answer'd not ? 
Forgive me all thy tears, thy agonies. 
I dared not speak to thee, lest the strong joy 
Should overpower thee, and thy feeble limbs 
Refuse to bear thee in thy flight. 

MIRIAM. 

What 's here ? 
Am I in heaven, and thou forehasted thither 
To welcome me ? Ah, no! thy warlike garb, 
And the wild light, that reddens all the air, 
Those shrieks — and yet this could not be on earth, 
The sad, the desolate, the sinful earth. 
And thou couldst venture amid fire and death. 
Amid thy country's ruins to protect me, 
Dear Javan ? 

JAVAN. 

'Tis not now the first lime, Miriam, 
That I have held my life a worthless sacrifice 
For thine. Oh ! all these later days of siege 
I 've slept in peril, and I 've woke in peril. 
For every meeting I 've defied the cross. 
On which the Roman, in his merciless scorn. 
Bound all the sons of Salem. Sweet, I boast not; 
But to thank rightly our Deliverer, 
We must know all the extent of his deliverance. 

MIRIAM. 

And I can only weep ! 

JAVAN. 

Ay, thou shouldst weep, 
Lost Zion's daughter. 

MIRIAM. 

Ah ! I thought not then 
Of my dead sister, and my captive father — 
Said they not " captive" as we pass'd ? — I thought not 
Of Zion's ruin and the Temple's waste. 
Javan, I fear that mine are tears of joy ; 
'Tis sinful at such times — but thou art here. 
And I am on Ihy bosom, and I cannot 
Be, as I ought, entirely miserable. 

JAVAN. 

My own beloved ! I dare call thee mine. 

For Heaven halh given thee to me — chosen out. 

As we two are, for solitary blessing. 

While the universal curse is pour'd around us 

On every head, 't were cold and barren gratitude 

To stifle in our hearts the holy gladness. 

But, oh Jerusalem! Ihy rescued children 
May not, retired within their secret joy. 
Shut out the mournful sight of thy calamities. 

Oh, beauty of earth's cities! throned queen 
Of thy milk-flowing valleys! crown'd with glory! 
The envy of the nations ! now no more 

A city One by one thy palaces 

Sink into ashes, and the unilbrm smoke 
O'er half thy circuit hath brought back the night 

441 



432 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Which the insulting flames had made give place 
To their unlimely terrible day. The flames 
That in the Temple, their last proudest conquest, 
Now gather all their might, and furiously, 
Like revellers, hold there exulting triumph. 
Round every pillar, over all the roof, 
On the wide gorgeous front, the holy depth 
Of the far sanctuary, every portico. 
And every court, at once, concentrated, 
As though to glorify and not destroy. 

They burn, they blaze 

Look, Miriam, how it stands ! 
Look! 

MIRIAM. 

There are men around us i 

JAVAN. 

They are friends. 
Bound here to meet me, and behold the last 
Of our devoted city. Look, oh Christians! 
Still the Lord's house survives man's fallen dwellings, 
And wears its ruin with a majesty 
Peculiar and divine. Still, still it stands. 
All one wide fire, and yet no stone hath fallen. 

Hark — hark ! 
The feeble cry of an expiring nation. 

Hark — hark ! 
The awe-struck shout of the unboasting conqueror. 

Hark — hark ! 
It breaks — it severs — it is on the earth. 
The smolher'd fires are quench'd in their own ruins : 
Like a huge dome, the vast and cloudy smoke 
Hath cover'd all. 

And it is now no more. 
Nor ever shall be to the end of time. 

The Temple of Jerusalem ! Fall down, 

My brethren, on the dust, and worship here 
The mysteries of God's wrath. 

Even so shall perish. 
In its own ashes, a most glorious Temple, 
Yea, God's own architecture, this vast world, 
This fated universe — the same destroyer. 

The same destruction Earth, Earth, Earth, behold ! 

And in that judgment look upon thine own! 



Even thus amid thy pride and luxury, 

Oh Earth ! shall that last coming burst on thee, 

That secret coming of the Son of Man, 
When all the cherub-throning clouds shall shine, 
Irradiate with his bright advancing sign: 

When that Great Husbandman shall wave his fan. 
Sweeping, like chaflT, thy wealth and pomp away: 
Still to the noontide of that nightless day, 

Shalt thou thy wonted dissolute course maintain. 
Along the busy mart and crowded street, 
The buyer and the seller still shall meet. 

And marriage feasts begin their jocund strain: 
Still to the pouring out the Cup of Woe ; 
Till Earth, a drunkard, reeling to and fro. 
And mountains molten by his burning feet. 
And Heaven his presence own, all red with furnace 
heat. 



The hundred-gated Cities then. 

The Towers and Temples, named of men 

Eternal, and the Thrones of Kings; 
The gilded summer Palaces, 
The courtly bowers of love and ease. 

Where still the Bird of pleasure sings; 
Ask ye the destiny of them ? 
Go gaze on fallen Jerusalem ! 
Yea, mightier names are in the fatal roll, 

'Gainst earth and heaven God's standard is unfurl'd. 
The skies are shrivell'd like a burning scroll. 
And the vast common doom ensepulchres the world. 

Oh ! who shall then survive ? 
Oh ! who shall stand and live ? 
When all that hath been, is no more : 
When for the round earth hung in air, 
With all its constellations fair 
In the sky's azure canopy; 
When for the breathing Earth, and sparkling Sea, 

Is but a fiery deluge without shore, 
Heaving along the abyss profound and dark, 
A fiery deluge, and without an Ark. 

Lord of all power, when thou art there alone 
On thy eternal fiery-wheeled throne. 
That in its high meridian noon 
JNeeds not the perish'd sun nor moon : 
When thou art there in thy presiding state. 
Wide-sceptred Monarch o'er the realm of doom : 
When from the sea-deplhs, from earth's darkest 
womb. 
The dead of all the ages round thee wait : 
And when the tribes of wickedness are strewn 
Like forest leaves in the autumn of thine ire : 
Faithful and True ! thou still wilt save thine own ! 
The Saints shall dwell within th' unharming fire, 
Each white robe spotless, blooming every palm. 
Even safe as we, by this still fountain's side. 
So shall the Church, thy bright and mystic Bride, 
Sit on the stormy gulf a halcyon bird of calm. 
Yes, 'mid yon angry and destroying signs, 
O'er us the rainbow of thy mercy shines. 
We hail, we bless the covenant of its beam, 
Almighty to avenge, Almightiest to redeem'! 



NOTES. 



Note 1. 

Advance the eagles, Caius Placidus. 
Placidus, though not expressly mentioned as one of 
the Roman generals engaged, had a command pre- 
viously in Syria. 

Note 2. 

A mount of snow fretted with golden pinnacles! 

To(? ye firiv daa^iKvovfitvoi? (ivoi?, ■KdppbyBtv ojioioi 

opti ^lovog Tr\fipu KaTt(pai)itro, Kal yap Kada fifi Kc^pv- 

au>TO XcvKdraros t/V. JOSEPHUS, lib. V. c. 5. See the 

whole description. 

Note 3. 
Thy brethren of the Porch, imperial Titus. 
Mr. Reginald Heber's " Stoic tyrant's philosophic 

442 



THE FALL OF JERUSALEM. 



433 



pride" will occur to the memory at least of academic 
readers 

Note 4. 

Let this night 
Our wide encircling wallg complete their circuit. 
"The days shall come upon thee when thine ene- 
mies shall cast a trench about thee, and compass thee 
round, and keep thee in on every side." Luke, xix, 43. 
For the remarkable and perfect completion of this 
prophecy, see the description of the wall built by 
Titus. — JosEPiius, lib. v, ch. 12. 

Note 5. 

I should give to the flame 
Whate'er opposed the sovereign sway of Cicsar. 
Terentius, or Turnus Rufus, is marked with singu- 
lar detestation in the Jewish traditions. 

Note 6. 
Sweet fountain, once again I visit thee ! 
The fountain of Siloe was just without the walls. 
The upper city, occupied by Simon (Josephus, v, 6.), 
ended nearly on a line with tjie fountain. Though, 
indeed, Simon had possession of parts also of the 
lower city. — Josephus, v, 1. 

Note 7. 
Let Gischala, let fallen Jotapata. 
Gischala and Jotapata, towns before taken by the 
Romans. 

Note 8. 

Our bridal songs, etc. 

It must be recollected, that the unmarried state was 

looked on with peculiar horror by the Jewish maidens. 

By marriage there was a hope of becoming the mother 

of the Messiah. 

Note 9. 
Did old Atathias hold. 
Simon put to death Mathias the High Priest and 
his sons, by whom he had been admitted into the city. 

Note 10. 
Ye want not testimonies to your mildness. 
Titus crucified round the city those who fled from 
the famine and cruelty of the leaders within. — 
(Josephus, v,ch. 13.) Sometimes, according to Jo- 
sephus, (lib. V, c. 11,) 500 in a day suffered. 

Note 11. 
Even on the hilb where gleam your myriad spears. 
The camp of Titus comprehended a space called the 
" Assyrian's Camp." 

Note 12. 
A javelin to his pale and coward heart I 
Josephus gives more than one speech which he ad- 
dressed to his countrymen. They only mocked and 
once wounded him. 



Note 13. 
Behold, oh Lord '. the Heathen tread, etc. 
See Psalm Ixxx, 7, etc. 

Note 14. 

Even in the garb and with the speech of worship. 
Went he not up into the very Temple 7 

This was the mode in which John surprised Eleazar, 
who before was in possession of the Temple. 

Note 15. 
There hath be held the palace of his lusts. 
VvvaiKi^dficvoi ic t<(5 6'i|cif, iip6vu>v raii ft^ta7;, 
dfjiiTTTdiitvoi. Is ToXi Gn&ianaaiv, i^avlvr;; lyii'ovTO roXf- 

iJKTTal. — Josephus, lib. iv, c. 9. There is a long pas- 
sage to the same effect. 

No. 16. 
And where is now the wine for the bridegroom's rosy cup. 
In the prophecy of our Saviour concerning the de- 
struction of Jerusalem and that of the world, it is said 
that " as in the days of Noe, they shall marry and be 
given in marriage." — Matthew, xxiv. 

Note 17. 
That when the signs are manifest. 
The prodigies are related by Josephus in a magni- 
ficent page of historic description. 

Note 18. 
To the sound of timbrels sweet. 

The bridal ceremonies are from Calmef, Harmer, 
and other illustrators of scripture. It is a singular 
tradition that the use of the crowns was discontinued, 
after the fall of Jerusalem. A few peculiarities are 
adopted from an account of a Maronite wedding in 
Harmer. 

Note 19. 
The tender and the delicate of women. 

"The tender and delicate woman among you, 
which would not adventure to set the sole of her 
foot upon the ground for delicateness and tenderness, 
her eye shall be evil toward the husband of her 
bosom, and toward her son and toward her daughter, 
and toward her young one that cometh out from 
between her feet, and toward her children which 
she shall bear ; for she shall eat them for want of all 
things secretly in the siege and in the siraitness, 
wherewith thine enemy shall distress thee in thy 
gates." (Deuter. xxviii, 56 and .57.) See also Lamen- 
lation.s, ii. 20. The account of the unnatural mother, 
is detailed in Josephus. 

Note 20. 
Break into joy, ye barren that ne'er bore ! 
" And woe unto them that are with child, and to 
them that give suck in those days." — Matthew 
xxiv, 19. 



434 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



JECfiiccUanroiifii poemfij. 



THE BELVIDERE APOLLO: 
A PRIZE POEM, 

RECITED IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, IN THE YEAR 
MDCCCXII. 

Heard ye the arrow hurtle in the sky ? 

Heard ye the dragon monster's deathful cry? 

In settled majesty of calm disdain, 

Proud of his might, yet scornful of the slain. 

The heav'niy Archer stands* — no human birth, 

No perishable denizen of earth ; 

Youth blooms immortal in his beardless face, 

A God in strength, with more than godlike grace ; 

All, all divine — no struggling muscle glows. 

Through heaving vein no mantling life-blood flows, 

But animate with deity alone. 

In deathless glory lives the breathing stone. 

Bright kindling with a conqueror's stern delight, 
His keen eye tracks the arrow's fateful flight; 
Burns his indignant cheek with vengeful fire. 
And his lip quivers with insulting ire : 
Firm fix'd his tread, yet light, as when on high 
He walks th' impalpable and pathless sky: 
The rich luxuriance of his hair, confined 
In graceful ringlets, wantons on the wind. 
That lifts in sport his mantle's drooping fold 
Proud to display that form of faultless mould. 

Mighty Ephesian!t with an eagle's flight 
Thy proud soul mounted through the fields of light, 
Vievv'd the bright conclave of Heaven's blest abode. 
And the cold marble leapt to life a God : 
Contagious awe through breathless myriads ran. 
And nations bow'd before the work of man. 
For mild he seem'd, as in Elysian bowers. 
Wasting in careless ease the joyous hours; 
Haughty, as bards have sung, with princely sway 
Curbing the fierce flame-breathing steeds of day ; 
Beauteous as vision seen in dreamy sleep 
By holy maid on Delphi's haunted steep, 
'Mid the dim twilight of the laurel grove, 
Too fair to worship, too divine to love. 

Yet on that form in wild delirious trance 
With more than rev'rence gazed the Maid of France, 
Day after day the love-sick dreamer stood 
With him alone, nor thought it solitude ! 
To cherish grief, her last, her dearest care, 
Her one fond hope — to perish of despair. 
Oft as the shifting light her sight beguiled. 
Blushing she shrunk, and thought the marble smiled : 



*The Apollo is in the act of watching the arrow with which 
he slew the serpent Python. 
t Agasias of Ephceus. 



Oft breathless list'ning heard, or seem'd to hear, 
A voice of music melt upon her ear. 
Slowly she waned, and cold and senseless grown, 
Closed her dim eyes, herself benumb'd to stone. 
Yet love in death a sickly strength supplied : 
Once more she gazed, then feebly smiled and died.^ 



JUDICIUM REGALE, 
AN ODE. 

I sleep, and as in solemn judgment court 

Amid a tall imperial city sate, 
The sceptred of the world : their legal port 

Show'd lords of earth ; and as on empires' fate 
They communed, grave each brow, and front serene ; 
Holy and high their royalty of mien : 
Seem'd nor pale passion, nor blind interest base 
Within that kingly Sanhedrim had place. 

Abroad were sounds as of a storm gone past, 
Or midnight on a dismal battle field ; 

Aye some drear trumpet spake its lonely blast, 
Aye in deep distance sad artillery peal'd. 

Booming their sullen thunders — then ensued 
The majesty of silence — on her throne 
Of plain or mountain, listening safe and lone 
Each nation to those crowned Peers' decree ; 

And this wide world of restless beings rude 
Lay mute and breathless as a summer sea. 

To the Universal Judge, that conclave proud 
Their diadem-starr'd foreheads lowly bow'd : 
When, at some viewless summoner's stern call, 
Uprose in place the Imperial Criminal. 
In that wan face nor ancient majesty 

Left wither'd splendour dim, nor old renown 
Lofty disdain in that sad sunken eye ; 
No giant ruin even in wreck elate 
Frowning dominion o'er imperious fate, 

But one to native lowliness cast down. 
A sullen, careless desperation gave 

The hollow semblance of intrepid grief. 
Not that heroic patience, nobly brave. 

That even from misery wrings a proud relief; 
Nor the dark pride of haughty spirits of ill. 

That from the towering grandeur of their sin, 
Wear on the brow triumphant gladness still, 

Heedless of racking agony within ; 
Nor penitence was there, nor pale remorse. 

Nor memory of his fall from kingly state. 
And warrior glory in his sun-like course. 

Fortune his slave, and Victory his mate. 



t The foregoing fact is related in the work of M. Pinel sur 
rinsanlte. 

444 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



435 



'T were doubt if that dark form could truly feel, 
Or were indeed a shape and soul of steel. 

With that from North and South an ireful train 
Forth came that mighty Culprit to arraign, 
The First was as a savage Horseman bold, 

Uncouth his rude attire, his bearing wild ; 
But gallant was his brow that lightly smiled, 

As seeming war some merry sport to hold : 
'I'he air whereon his fleet steed seem'd to prance 
Flamed with the steely bickering of his lance. 
And on the waves of his broad banner's fold 

An old barbaric Capital he bore. 
Like some tall grove of pinnacle and spire. 
Or snowy white, or gleaming rich with gold : 
But the red havoc of upspringing fire 

A fatal flood of glory seem'd to pour; 
And still from gilded roof or dome upbroke 
In dusky pillars huge the cloudy smoke. 
Nor word that Horseman spake, but as he came 
Waved his grim standard like a pall of flame. 

And next came one all trim in fearful grace 
\ And tall majestic symmetry of war, 

Musquet and bayonet flashing bright and far ; 
Deliberate valour in his slow firm pace. 
And scorn of death — him at the portal arch 
Saluted blithe old Frederick's bugle march. 
Heavy his charge — of lordly King bow'd down 
In his own royal city to the frown 

Of the base minion to a despot's hate — * 
Then blanch'd the Soldier's bronzed and furrow'd 

cheek. 
While of coarse taunting outrage he 'gan speak, 

To her the beautiful, the delicate. 
The queenly, but too gentle for a Queen — 
But in sweet pride upon that insult keen 
She smiled — then drooping mute, though broken- 
hearted, 
I To the cold comfort of the grave departed. 

The next like some old Baron's lordly son 
I Bore what a rich imperial crown had been, 
But from its stars the pride of light was gone ; 

The joy of vengeance on that warrior's mien 
I Was chasing the red hues of ancient shame : 
1 Not of Marengo's fair-fought field he told. 

Nor the wide waves of blood huge Danube roll'd; 
■ But him that in strong Ulm play'd that foul game, 
I Bartering his country and his soul ftr gold : 
I And that fair royal Maid, by battle won 

Like thing that hath nor will nor sense, and borne 
I A bright and beauteous trophy to adorn 
The brittle grandeur of an upstart's throne. 

I Next came a stately Lady, once was she 

Queen of the Nations : of her despot sway 
Earth boasted, every flood and every sea 
Water'd her tributary realms, and day 
Rose only on her empire : now it seem'd 
That she had cast her cumbrous crown away 

I * Alluding to a governor being set over the King of Prussia 
in Berlin. 

I 37 3E 

I 



To slumber in her vales that basking lie 

In the luxurious azure of her sky ; 
On Saint or Virgin, such as Raphael dream'd. 

In almost blameless fitnd idolatry. 

Speechless to gaze, and bow the adoring knee; 
In the soul's secret chambers to prolong 
The rapturous ravishment of harp and song. 
Music was in her steps, and all her eye 
Was dark and eloquent with ecstasy. 

Rapine her charge — of Florence' princely halls. 
And that fall'n Empress by old Tiber's side 
Reft of the sole sad relics of her pride ; 

For the iron conqueror ravish'd from her walls 

Those shapes that in their brealhingcolours warm 
In tall arcade or saintly chapel lived. 
And all wherein the soul of Greece survived 

The more than human of each marble form. 

Of the proud bridegroom of the Adrian Sea, 
Once like his bride magnificent and free, 
Sunk to a bond-slave's desperate apathy. 

And him the Holiest deem'd, the chosen of God, 
Beneath an earthly lord bow'd down to kiss the rod. 
And next came one, the bravery of whose front 

Crested hereditary pride; his arms 
Were dark and dinted by rude battle's brunt : 

Of Sovereign young he spake, by wizard charms 
Of hollow smiling treachery from the throne 

Of two fair worlds to felon durance lured, 

A King in narrow prison walls immured ; 
And some rude islander's soul-groveling son 
Set up to be a princely nation's Lord : — 

But then the Spaniard with fierce brow and bright 
Brandish'd the cloudy flaming of his sword ; 

Full was his soul of Zaragoza's fight. 
And the high Pyrenean snows o'erleap'd. 
And other Pavias with Frank carnage heap'd. 

The brother of his wrongs and of his wrath 

Was with him in the triumph of his path. 

He of his exile Prince 'gan loudly boast ; 
To be a sceptred slave, a pageant King, 
lie scorn'd, and on his fleet bark's gallant wing 

For kingly freedom the wild ocean crost. 

Whom saw I then in port and pride a Queen, 
Come walking o'er her own obsequious sea ? 
1 knew thee well, the valiant, rich, and free — 
As when old Rome, her Roman virtue tame, 
Gazed, when in arms that bold Dictator came ; 
With the iron ransom of her Capitol 
Startled to flight the fierce insulting Gaul — 

Camillus of mankind ! thy regal mien 

Gladden'd all earth; the nations from their rest 
Joyful upleap'd : with modest front elate, 

Like one that hath proud conscience in her breast. 
Thou brakest the blank silence — "Woe and hate 
To this bad man for those my good and great, 

That sleep amid the Spaniard's mountains rude 
In the sad beauty of the hero's fate. 

To this bad man immortal gratitude. 

For he hath taught, who slaves the free of earth 
Fettereth the whirlwind: hath given glorious birth 

445 



43G 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To deeds that dwarf my old majestic fame, 
Make Blake and Marlborough languid sound 
and tame 
To Nelson and that Chief to whom defeat 
Is like an undiscover'd star — hath shown 
More than the Macedonian victories vain 
To rivet on the earth the Oppressor's chain : 
As little will yon Sun's empyrean throne 
Endure a mortal seat, as this wide globe 

Be one man's appanage ; or my fair isle, 
That precious gera in ocean's azure robe, 
Cast Freedom's banner down, by force or guile 
Master'd, and furieit earth's renown and love, 
And her bright visions of high meed above." 

Then all at once did from all earth arise 
Fierce imprecations on that man of sin; 
And all the loaded winds came heavy in 
With exultations and with agonies. 
From the lone coldness of the widow's bed. 
The feverish pillow of the orphan's head, 
From dying men earth's woful valleys heaping. 
From smouldering cities in their ashes sleeping. 
Like the hoarse tumbling of a torrent flood 
Mingled the dismal concord — " blood for blood." 

But then arose a faded shape and pale. 

Once had she been a peerless princely dame ; 
Downcast her grace of grief; she seem'd to veil 

The mournful beauty of her lace for shame. 
And is this she whose sprightly laughing mirth 
Was like the blithe spring on the festal earth ; 
Aye dancing at the moonlight close of day, 
'Mid purple vineyards, graceful, light, and gay; 
Or in high pomp and gallant pride of port 
Holding rich revel in her gorgeous court? — 

Abrupt her speech and wild — " When I 'gan wake 

From that my sleep of madness, all around 
Of human blood a broad and livid lake 

Was in my splendid cities; mound on mound 
Rose peopled with my noble princely dead : 
And o'er them the fell anarch, Murther, stood 
Grimly reposing in his weary mood — 
I turn'd, all trembling turn'd, my guilty head: 
There humankind had leagued their arms of dread 
'Gainst the Blasphemer of fair Freedom's name, 
Heaven gave no hope, for heaven I dared disclaim. 

" High in the flaming car of Victory riding, 
From Alp to Alp his chamois warriors guiding 
The peril of wild Lodi's arch bestriding, 

I saw yon Chieftain in his morn of fame ; 
Cities and armies at his beck sank down. 
And in the gaudy colours of renown 

The fabling Orient vested his young nam . 
The bright and baleful Meteor I adored, 
Low bow'd I down, and said — 'Be thou my Lord !' 

Like old and ruinous towers, the ancient thrones 
Crumbled, and dynasties of elder time; 

The banners of my conquest-plumed sons 
Flouted the winds of many a distant clime : 

On necks of vanquish'd kings I fix'd my seat, 

And the broad Rhine roU'd vassal at my feet. 



Thrice did the indignant Nations league their might. 

Thrice the red darkness of the battle night 

Folded the recreant terror of their flight. 

Realms sack'd and ravaged empires sooth'd my toils. 

And Satrap Chiefs were Monarchs from my spoils. 

In solitude of freedom that rich Queen 

Sate in her sanctity of waves serene. 

From clifl!" and beach, dominion in their motion, 
I saw her stately navies' broad array. 
Like jealous lords at watch, that none but they 

Adulterate with their fair majestic ocean. 
And cries I heard like frenzy and dismay 
Of Nelson, Nelson deepening on their way. 

But what to me though red the western deep 
With other fires than of the setting sun ? 

And what to me though round Trafalgar's steep 
My haughty pennon 'd galleys, one by one. 

Come rolling their huge wrecks on the waves' sweep ? 

Go rule thy brawling and tumultuous sea, 

Briton, but leave the servile earth to me. 

And what to me though in my dungeons deep 

By this new Charlemagne dark deeds were done — 
Will the stones start and babble to the sun 

How that bold Briton Wright, and Pichegru sleep ? 

At noon of night I heard the drum of death. 
Like evil spirits on the blasted heath 

By the drear torchlight iron men were met. 
The mockery of justice soon was past ; 

Again the drum its dismal warning beat: 
Then flashing musquets deathful lustre cast 

A moment on the victim ; he sedate 

In calm disdain of even a felon's fate, 
His royal breast bared to the soldier's mark, 

Seeming to pity with his steady sight 
Those poor mechanic murderers — then 't was dark, 

All but yon crown'd Assassin's visage bright. 

Who waved his torch in horrible delight. 
O blood of Conde ! could thy spirit rest 
In thy tame country's cold ungrateful breast? 

Yet in my drunkenness of pride I mock'd 

Mean crimes that would a petty tyrant shame, 
For still in glory's cradle was I rock'd. 

Mine eagle eyrie crown'd the steep of fame. 
Nought heeded I, that the proud Son of Spain, 
Like a fierce courser that has burst his chain. 
Shook the base slavery from his floating mane. 
And that new British Arthur's virgin shield 
Won its rich blazon on Vimeira's field. 

For lo, my cities throw their portals wide ; 
Gorgeous my festal streets, as when of old 
The monarchs met upon the plain of gold — 

Lo, on my throne a bright and royal bride. 

Vain all my pomp, imperial beauty vain 

The reveller in battles to restrain. 

And at his word, as at the fabled wand 
Of old magician, from the teeming land, 

Myriad on myriad, harness'd warriors rise; 
The earth was darken'd with excess of light, 

446 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



437 



Line after line, insufferably bright; 

The black artillery, in their cloudy might, 

Impious defiance lanch'd against the skies. 
With tamer sounds did that wild Heathen* vaunt 
Amid his thund'rous heavens high Jove to daunt. 
Day after day I saw their pomp depart; 
Then said the haughty frenzy of my heart. 
When o'er this world thy victor wheels are driven. 
Wilt thou go vanquish the bright stars of Heaven ? 

And lo, the rival nations hurrying 

To crowd beneath my passing eagle's wing ; 

Lo, 'mong my captains many a sceptred king. 

Now, now the northern skies are all on fire 
As with some mighty Empire's funeral pyre ! 
Why bring they not proud Catherine's trophies home? 
I hear the sound of wheels — ' They come, they come.' 

A solitary sound — no pomp of war 

One dastard pale accomplice of his flight, 

He comes, whom earth, and all earth's sons obey. 
The peerless and the paragon of might ; 

The pinnace of the Persian runaway 
Was glory to his lone and hurrying car. 

I ask'd for those in fight, in triumph tried, 
The partners of his peril and his pride. 
He, in a tyrant's mockery of my woe, 
Bade me go seek them in the Scythian snow. 

Then felt I what a pitiful tame slave 

Was I, who vaunted me mankind's sole queen, 
The satellite of one man's wayward spleen — 
The remnant of my fair, my young, my brave. 
Were rent once more to forge the adamant chain 
Burst by the nations, who with one accord 
Shook the bright vengeance of the freeman's 
sword — 
Another year — and the broad Rhine again 
Shrouded the sceptred fugitive's pale train, 
Then turn'd a rebel, roU'd her free waves to the main. 

And now the banners of the embattled world 
Their folds of vengeance on my vales unfurl'd. 
Oh, bloody was the evening of thine ire, 
Thou gorgeous comet of disastrous fire! 

I wont to see, as from some quiet star. 
Deluging slaughter this fair earth o'erwhelm, 
On the rich bosom of my sunny realm 

Gave quarry to the ravening dogs of war. 

But mercy shone upon the merciless! 
Strong but to save and valiant but lo bless, 
No ruthless Coesars clad in blood and flame, 
Royal in virtue the Avengers came. 
Those whom I spoil'd, no spoilers came to me, 
I said, ' Be slave, O earth!' but they — 'O France, be 
free.' 

For yon dark chief of woe, and guilt, and strife, 
O sceptred judges! punish him with life. 
Fear not he seek with the old Roman pride. 
That weakness to the noble soul allied. 
To die as Cato, and as Brutus died. 



Salmoneus. 



Fear not that in his abject heart he show 

That martyr fortitude, that smiles in woe. 

By him shall that great secret be betray'd. 

Of what poor stuff are earth's dread tyrants made. 

Oh, let him live to be despised, to see 

France happy, and the glorious nations free ; 

Death were delight to that deep misery !" — 

Then did that kingly conclave, with one voice. 
Pass the dread sentence on the gloomy man; 
In his soul's icy deadness he alone 
By others' woes seem'd harden'd to his own. 

From land to land the penal tidings ran; 
Earlh lifted up her rich face to rejoice. 
The bright blue heavens bade wintry warring cease, 
And spring came dancing o'er a world at peace. 



ALEXANDER TUMULUM ACHILLIS INVI- 

SENS, POEMA. 

CANCELLARII PR^MIO DONATUM, ET IN THEATRO 
SHELDONIANO RECITATUM DIE JUN. X.\'X°«'. A.D. 1813 

Jam puer Emathius Thebarum nigra favilla 
Mosnia, Cadmeamque arcer.i, jam Palladis urbem 
Immemorem famae, pronamque in jussa tyranui 
Fregerat; at victas gentes partosque triumphos 
Spernit atrox animi, et pacem fastidit inertera. 
Enropes angusta pati confinia nescit 
Mentito soboles Jove non indigna, novumque 
Poscit in arma orbem ; jam transilit Hellespontum, 
Purpureique Asiae proceres atque agmina regum, 
Sceptrigeri quotquot stipant Babylonia Medi 
Atria, Grajugenum horrescunt nota arma virorum, 
Myrmidonumque graves, fatalia tela, sarissas. 
Confertos clypeos, inconcussamque phalangen. — 

At simul ac Phrygise campos, Priameia regna, 
Conspicit, et Graiae late loca conscia famae 
Gramineosqueducum tumulos,subitundique Achivum 
Gloria et adversis bellantia numina in armis, 
Et Lacedajmonia sa;vae pro conjuge clades. 
Orane igitur lustrare juvat, quod mente dolores 
Iliacos renovet, Danaumque resuscitet iras. 
Spumeus hie Xanthus nemorosa pronus ab Ida, 
Non galeas, non scuta virum, sed proruta saxa 
Arboreosque rapit violento flumine truncos. 
Hie, ubi luxuriat flaventi campus arista, 
Laomedonteum fuit Ilion, undique nullae 
Reliquia; apparent muri, fractceve columnae, 
Oblita non musco viridanti saxa, Pelasgi 
Usque adeo miseras Trojje invidere ruinas. 
Rhajteasque procul rupes, tumulumque capacem, 
Ajacis, vasta elatum super iquora mole 
Cernere erat — sed nulla quies — sed fervidus Heros 
Stare loco nescit, flagratque cupidine pugna;. 
Devenit at tandem, Sigeo ubi littore collis 
Eminet apricus, quem suave olentia circum 
Serpylla, et viridi cingunt dumeta corona. 
Hunc et Abydenus sea mollem navita Leshon, 
Pampineamve Chion, Samiacve altaria Divae 
Invisit, radianle orientis lumine solis 
Prospicit ardentem, reraoque acclinis, Homen 

447 



438 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Suave aliqnod carmen secum meditalur, et haBret 
Ingentem tumulum, et Manes veneratus Achillis. 

Qualis MjBonii divino in carmine vatis 
Stat torvus vuitu, et ccelestibus horret in armis, 
Fulraineosque agitat currus sublimis, et unum 
Hectora, per trepidas unum petit Hectora turmas: 
Haud aliter ctec;"! yEacides tellure videtur, 
Ceu lituo fremituque armorum excitus amato, 
Tollere se, juvenique ingens gratarier umbra. 
Hunc videt, et viso gaudet, quin totus inani 
Figitur in specie, quamque ipse eflinxerat umbram 
Esse pntat veram, mutoque immobilis ore 
Stat Macedo; ast Asiae fines atque ultimus orbis 
Sentit Alexandri requiem, tardataque fata. 

Turn lecti comites instaurant sacra, et odori 
Rite coronatis fumant altaribus ignes. 
Fervet opus, latices pars vivo e fonte, Lyaeo 
Imniistos roseo, sinoeraque flumina lactis 
Auratis iibant pateris, pars florea, circum 
Serta, et odoriferos dispergunt veris honores. 
Quin et gramineam niveus mactatur ad aram 
Taurus, et humectat sacratam sanguine arenara. 

At procul Idaeo spectat de vertice pompam 
I'urba Phrygum, mistaque ira et fbrmidine mussat, 
Hos novus angit honos et adhuc invisus Achilles. 
Atque aliqua in trepida mater stat mcesta caterva 
Andromachen animo reputans, Ithacique cruenta 
Astyanacta manu dejectum mosnibus altis, 
Dilectumque premit pavefacta ad pectora natum. 
Stat virgo, mcsstosque fovet sub corde timores, 
'Ne nova materno direpta Polyxena eollo 
Placet Achilleos infando sanguine Manes. 

At Rex Emathius nodosae innititur hastas 
Majestate minax, tacita, ceu numine planus 
Fatidico vates, e pectore protinus amens 
Excutit ille Deuni, puloher furor occupat ora, 
Terror inest ocidis, procerior emicat ingens 
Forma viri, fluitant agitata? in casside cristae. 

" Me quoque, me," clamat, "belli post mille labores, 
Post fractas urbes, post regna hac proruta dextra 
Ultima canlabit tellus, gens nulla silebit 
IVomen Alexandri, sobolemquo fatebitur Hammon. 
Te, magne ^acida, decimus te viderit annus 
lliacas arces el debita Pergama fatis 
Oppugnantem armis, me Sol mirabitur ire 
A'ictorem, cursuque suos praevertere currus. 
Jam Susa, et prairlara auro niveoque elephanto 
Fcbatana, et frustra patriorum ope freta Deorum 
Persepolis (tristes inliiant ceu nubibus atris 
Agricolae dubii quos fulmine proterat agros 
Jupiter) expectant ruiturum in mojnia Martem ; 
Servitium quibus una salus, quibus ultima et una est 
Gloria Alexandri dextrd meruisse ruinam. 
Adsum ego, jam Babylon aeratus pandere portas 
Festinat, patiturque superbo flumine ponlem 
Euphrates, Graiumque minax strepit nngula equorum, 
Et Larissens super ardua mtsnia currus ; 
Quo ferus Hystaspes, quo tramite Cyrus adegit 



Quadrijugos, Lydoque equitavit fulgidus auro, 
Et non foemineis animosa Semiramis armis. 
Delude coloratos, qualis Jovis ales, ad Indos, 
Et matutins rosea incunabula lucis 
Deferor, auriferos Macedo bibit impiger amnes. 
Atque ubi Pellfeis tellus jam deficit armis, 
Nee superest nostro gens non indigna triumpho, 
Unus Alexander victo dominabitur orbi. 

"Jamque procul Martis strepitus, jam pervenit aures 
Ferrea vox belli, jam dira ad prjelia Medus 
Aureus accingit galeam gladiumque coruscat 
Impatiens fati, et GraisE vim provocat ultro 
Cuspidis, ardentique superbit barbarus ostro — 
Non Equas, Darie, malo petis omine pugnas! 
Ibat ovans ferrum Argolicis flammasque carinis 
Insanii virtute ferens Priameius Hector. 
Ilium ergo llliacae rediturum vespere sero 
Speravere nurus, Pelide ca3de madentem 
Atque Agamemnonios agiiantem ad Pergama currus. 
Speravere diu — crines procul ille venustos 
Formosumque caput foedabat pulvere in atro 
Sordidus, Argivisque dabat ludibria nautis. 

" Tarfareas fauces reserabit et horrida claustra 
Rex Erebi, utque meam videat coram invidushastam, 
Myrmidonumque feros referenlia bella parentes, 
Ad superas ingentem auras emittit Achillem. 
Ille mihi pugnas inter fremitumque, furoremque 
Addit se comitem, et curru famulatur ovanti. 
Vidi egomet, nisi vana oculos illusit imago, 
Spicula crispantem, atque minaci cassida fronte, 
Nutantem, quae luce vagos tremefecit ahena 
Priamidas, nigrumque auratis Memnona bigis. 
Vidi egomet, neque vana fides, atroque sub Oreo 
Immortalem animam tangit laus sera nepotum, 
Famaque Tartareis sonat haud ingrata sub urabris. 
Felix ^acida! tacitas ingloriiis isses 
Ad sedes Erebi, cascaque oblivia nocte 
Invida pressissent nomen, quod barbarus Istri 
Potor, et Herculeis gens si qua admota columnis 
Novit, et .^ithiopes non asquo Sole calentes. 
At tibi Masonides, seu quis Deus, aurea Olympi 
Regna procul linquens, ca?ci senis induit ora, 
Et plus quam mortale melos, bellumque, tumultum- 

que 
Infremuit, divina luce prsconia laudis, 
-^ternumque dedit viridem frondescere famara. 

•' Et nobis quandoque dabunt ha;c ultima dona 
Dii, quibus Emathium decus et mea gloria curs. 
Exoriare aliquis, nostrum qui nomen, Homerus, 
Pellaiosque feras ad sfficula sera triumphos, 
Exoriare, novus plectro non deerit Achilles." 

Ha;c fatus, clypeo fremuit, dirosque dedere 
.iEra sonos, qirassisque armis exercitus omnis 
Intonuere, simul nemorosa remugiit Ida. 
Quos sonitus, Granice, tuum ad fatale fluentum. 
Persarumque acies et piolis Medus in armis 
Agnovere procul, solio Darius eburno 
Exsiluit, fatique pavens praesagia iniqui 
Non audituro fudit vota irrita ccelo. 

448 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



439 



FORTUNE. 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GUIDI. 

A LADY, like to Juno in her state, 

Upon the air her golden tresses streaming, 

And with celestial eyes of azure beaming, 
Enter'd whilere my gate. 
Like a Barbaric Queen 

On ihe Euphrates shore. 
In purple and fine linen was she pall'd, 
Nor flower nor laurel green, 

Her tresses for their garland wore 
The splendour of the Indian emerald. 
But through the rigid pride and pomp unbending 

Of beauty and of haughtiness, 
Sparkled a flattery sweet and condescending : 

And from her inmost bosom sent, 
Came accents of most wonderous gentleness, 

Officious and intent 
To thrall my soul in soft imprisonment. 

And " Place," she said, " thy hand within my hair, 

And all around thou'ltsee 
Delightful chances fair 

On golden feet come dancing unto thee. 
Me Jove's daughter shalt thou own, 

That with my sister Fate 

Sits by his side on state 
On the eternal throne. 
Great Neptune to my will the ocean gives : 

In vain, in well-appointed strength secure. 
The Indian and the Briton strives 

The assaulting billows to endure; 
Unless their flying sails I guide 
Where over the smooth tide 
On my sweet spirit's wings I ride. 
I banish to their bound 
The storms of dismal sound. 
And o'er them take my stand with foot serene ; 

The .iEolian caverns under 
The wings of the rude winds I chain, 

And with my hand I burst asunder 
The fiery chariot wheels of the hurricane : 

And in its fount the horrid restless fire 

I quench ere it aspire 
To Heaven, to colour the red Comet's train. 

"This is the hand that forged on Ganges' shore 

The Indians' empire; by Orontes set 
The royal tiar the Assyrian wore ; 
Hung jewels on the brow of Babylon, 

By Tigris wreath'd the Persian's coronet, 
And at the Macedonian's foot bow'd every throne. 
It was my lavish gift. 

The triumph and the song 
Around the youth of Pella loud uplift, 

When he through Asia swept along, 

A torrent swift and strong; 
With me, with me the Conqueror ran 
To where the Sun his golden course began ; 
And the high Monarch left on earth 
A faith unquestion'd of his heavenly birth; 
37* 



By valour mingled with the Gods above, 

And made a glory of himself to his great father Jove. 

" My royal spirits oft 

Their solemn mystic round 

On Rome's great birth-day wound : 
And I the haughty Eagles sprung aloft , 

Unto the Star of Mars upborne. 

Till, poising on their plumy sails. 

They 'gan their native vales 
And Sabine palms to scorn : 
And I on the seven hills to sway 

That Senate House of Kings convened. 
On me their guide and stay 

Ever the Roman counsels lean'd 
In danger's lofty way. 
[ guerdon'd the wise delay 
Of Fabius with the laurel crown. 
And hot Marcellus' fiercer battle tone; 
And I on the Tarpeian did deliver 

Afric a captive, and through me Nile flow'd 
Under the laws of the great Latin river; 
And of his bow and quiver 
The Parthian rear'd a trophy high and broad : 
The Dacian's fierce inroad 
Against the gates of iron broke, 
Taurus and Caucasus endured my yoke : 
Then my vassal and my slave 

Did every native land of every wind become. 

And when I had o'ercome 
All earth beneath my feet, [ gave 

The vanquish'd world in one great gift to Rome. 

" I know that in thine high imagination, 

Other daughters of Great Jove 
Have taken their Imperial station. 

And queen-like thy submissive passions move; 
From them thou hopest a high and godlike fate, 

From them thy haughty verse presages 

An everlasting sway o'er distant ages, 

And with their glorious rages 
Thy mind intoxicate. 
Deems 't is in triumphal motion, 

On courser fleet, or winged bark, 
Over earth and over ocean ; 

While in shepherd hamlet dark 
Thou livest, vi'ith want within, and raiment coarse 
without ; 

And none upon thy state hath thrown 

Gentle regard ; I, I alone 
To new and lofty venture call thee out ; 
Then follow, thus besought. 
Waste not thy soul in thought ; 
Brooks nor sloth nor lingering 
The great moment on the wing." 

" A blissful lady and immortal, born 
From the eternal mind of Deity 
(I answer'd bold and free). 
My soul hath in her queenly care ; 
She mine imagination doth upliear, 

And steeps it in the light of her rich morn. 
That overshades and sicklies all thy shining; 

And though my lowly hair 

419 



440 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Presume not to bright crowns of thy entwining, 

Yet in my mind 1 bear 

Gifts nobler and more rare 
Than the kingdoms thou canst lavish, 
Gifls thou canst nor give nor ravish : 
And though my spirit may not comprehend 

Thy chances bright and fair, 
Yet neitlier doth her sight offend 

The aspect pale of miserable care : 
Horror to her is not 

Of this coarse raiment, and this humble cot; 
She with the golden Muses doth abide. 
And oh ! the darling children of thy pride 
Shall tiien be truly glorified. 
When ihey may merit to be wrapt around 
With my Poesy's eternal sound." 

She kindled at my words and flamed, as when 

A cruel star hath wide dispread 

Its locks of bloody red. 
She burst in wrathful menace then: 
" Me fears the Dacian, the band 

Of wandering Scythians fears. 
Me the rough mothers of Barbaric kings; 
In woe and dread amid the rings 

Of their encircling spears 
The purple tyrants stand ; 
And a shepherd here forlorn 
Treats my proffer'd boons with scorn. 
And fears he not my wrath ? 
And knows he not my works of scathe; 
Nor how with angry foot I went, 
Of every province in the Orient, 
Branding the bosom with deep tracks of death? 

From three Empresses I rent 
The tresses and imperial wreath, 

And bared them to the pitiless element. 
Well I remember when his armed grasp 

From Asia stretch'd, rash Xerxes took his stand 
Upon the formidable bridge to clasp 

And manacle sad Europe's trembling hand: 
In the great day of battle there was I, 

Busy with myriads of the Persian slaughter. 
The Salaminian sea's fair face to dye. 

That yet admires its dark and bloody water; 
Full vengeance wreak'd I for the affront 
Done Neptune at the fet^er'd Hellespont. 

" To the Nile then did I go. 

The fatal collar wound 

The fair neck of the Egyptian Queen around; 
And I the merciless poison made to flow 
Into her breast of snow. 
Ere that within the mined cave, 

I forced dark Afric's valour stoop 

Confounded, and its dauntless spirit droop, 
When to the Carthaginian brave. 
With mine own hand, the hemlock draught I gave. 

" And Rome through me the ravenous flame 

In the heart of her great rival, Carthage, cast. 
That went through Libya wandering, ascorn'd shade, 
Till, sunk to equal shame, 



Her mighty enemy at last 
A shape of mockery was made : 
Then miserably pleased. 

Her fierce and ancient vengeance she appeased; 
And even drew a sigh 

Over the ruins vast 
Of the deep-hated Latin majesty. 
I will not call to mind the horrid sword 

Upon the Memphian shore, 

Steep'd treasonously in great Pompey's gore ; 
Nor that for rigid Cato's death abhorr'd ; 

Nor that which in the hand of Brutus wore 
The first deep colouring of a Cassar's blood. 
Nor will I honour thee with thy high mood 
Of wrath, that kingdoms doth exterminate ; 
Incapable art thou of my great hate. 
As my great glories. Therefore shall be thine 
Of my revenge a slighter sign; 
Yet will I make its fearful sound 
Hoarse and slow rebound, 
Till seem the gentle pipings low- 
To equal the fierce trumpet's brazen glow." 

Then sprang she on her flight, 

Furious, and at her call. 
Upon my cottage did the storms alight. 

Did hurricanes and thunders fall. 
But I, with brow serene. 

Beheld the angry hail 

And lightning flashing pale. 
Devour the promise green 

Of my poor native vale. 



THE MERRY HEART. 

I WOULD not from the wise require 

The lumber of their learned lore ; 

Nor would I from the rich desire 

A single counter of their store. 

For I have ease, and I have health. 

And I have spirits, light as air; 

And more than wisdom, more than wealth,- 

A merry heart, that laughs at care. 

At once, 'tis true, two 'witching eyes 
Surprised me in a luckless season, 
Turn'd all my mirth to lonely sighs, 
And quite subdued my better reason. 
Yet 't was but love could make me grieve. 
And love you know 's a reason fair, 
And much improved, as I believe. 
The merry heart, that laugh'd at care. 

So now from idle wishes clear 
I make the good I may not find ; 
Adown the stream I gently steer. 
And shift my sail with every wind. 
And half by nature, half by reason, 
Can still with pliant heart prepare, 
' The mind, attuned to every season, 
J The merry heart, that laughs at care. 

450 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



441 



Yet, wrap me in your sweetest dream. 
Ye social feelings of the mind, 
Give, sometimes give, your sunny gleam, 
And let the rest good-humoiir find. 
Yes, let me hail and welcome give 
To every joy my lot may share. 
And pleased and pleasing let me live 
With merry heart, that laughs at care. 



THE TAKING OF TROY. 

CHORUS FROM THE TROADES OF EURIPIDES. 



A SAD, unwonted song, 
0"er I lion. Muse ! prolong. 
Mingled with tears of woe, 
The funeral descant slow. 

I too, with shriek and frantic cry. 
Take up the dismal melody ; 
How, lost through that strange four-wheel'd Car, 
Stern Argo's captive chains we wear. 
What time the Greek, or ere he fled 
Left at our gate the armed steed. 
Menacing the heavens with giant height, 
And all with golden housings bright. 

Shouted all the people loud. 

On the rock-built height that stood, — 

"Come," they sang, and on they prest,— 

" Come, from all our toils released. 

Lead the blest image to the shrine 

Of her, the Jove-born Trojan maid divine !" 

Linger'd then what timorous maid ? 
Her age his tardy steps delay'd ; — 
With gladsome shout, and jocund song. 
They drew their, treacherous fate along! 
And all the Phrygian rout 
Through every gate rush'd out. 
On the dangerous gift they lead, 
The beauty of th' unyoked, immortal steed. 
With its ambush'd warrior freight, 
Argos' pride and Ilion's fate. 
Round the stately horse, and round 
Cord and cable soon ihey wound; 
And drag it on, like pinnace dark 
Of some tall and stately bark. 
To the temple's marble floor, 
Soon to swim with Trojan gore. 

O'er the toil, the triumph, spread 
Silent night her curtain'd shade; 
But Libyan pipes still sweetly rang. 
And many a Phrygian air they sang; 
And maidens danced with airy feet. 
To the jocund measures sweet. 
And every house was blazing bright, 
As the glowing festival light 
Its rich and |)urple splendour stream'd, 
Where the mantling wine-cup gleam'd. 

But I, the while, the palace-courls around. 
Hymning the mountain queen, Jove's virgin daughter. 



Went with blithe dance, and music's sprightly 

sound, — 
When, all at once, the frantic cry of slaughter 
All through the wide and startled city ran! 
The shudd'ring infants on their mothers' breasts 
Clung with their hands, and cower'd within their vesta. 
Forth stalk'd the mighty Mars, and the fell work 

began. 
The work of Pallas in her ire! — 
Then round each waning altar-fire. 
Wild Slaughter, drunk with Phrygian blood, 
And murtherous Desolation strew'd ; 
Where, on her couch of slumber laid. 
Was wont to rest the tender maid, 
To warrior Greece the crown of triumph gave. 
The last full anguish to the Phrygian slave! 



THE SLAVE SHIP. 



[Founded on the following fact : — " The case of the Rodeur, 
mentioned by Lord Lansdnwne. A dreadful ophthalmia pre- 
vailed among the slaves on board this ship, which was com- 
municated to the crew, so that there was but a single man who 
could see to guide the vessel into port." — Quart. Rco. vol. 
26, p. 71.] 

Old, sightless man, unwont art thou, 

As blind men use, at noon 
To sit and sun thy tranquil brow. 

And hear the birds' sweet tune. 

There 's something heavy at thy heart, 

Thou dost not join the pray'r ; 
Even at God's word thou 'It writhe and start, 

"Oh! man of God, beware!" 

" If thou didst hear what I could say, 
'T would make thee doubt of grace, 

And drive me from God's house away, 
Lest I infect the place." 

" Say on ; there 's nought of human sin, 
Christ's blood may not atone :" 

" Thou canst not read what load 's within 
This desperate heart." — " Say on." 

" The skies were bright, the seas were calm, 

We ran before the wind. 
That, bending Afric's groves of palm. 

Came fragrant from behind. 

"And merry sang our crew, the cup 

Was gaily drawn and qiiafT'd, 
And when the hollow groan came up 

From the dark hold, we laugh'd. 

" For deep below, and all secure, 

Our living freight was laid. 
And long with ample gain, and sure, 

We had driven our awful trade. 

" They lay, like bales, in stifling gloom, 

Man, woman, nursling child, 
As in some plague-struck city's tomb 

The loathsome dead are piled. 

451 



442 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" At one short gust of that close air 
The sickening cheeit grew pale ; 

We lurn'd away — 't was all our care, 
Heaven's sweet breath to inhale. 

" 'Mid howl and yell, and shuddering moan, 
The scourge, the clanking chain. 

The cards were dealt, the dice were thrown, 
We staked our share of gain. 

" Soon in smooth Martinico's coves 
Our welcome bark shall moor. 

Or underneath the citron-groves 
That wave on Cuba's shore. 

" 'T was strange, ere many days were gone. 

How still grew all below, 
The wailing babe was heard alone. 

Or some low sob ol' woe. 

" Into the dusky hold we gazed. 

In heaps we saw them lie, 
And dim, unmeaning looks were raised 

From many a blood-red eye. 

" And helpless hands were groping round 

To catch their scanty meal ; 
Or at some voice's well-known sound. 

Some well-known touch to feel. 

" And still it spread, the blinding plague 

That seals the orbs of sight ; 
The eyes were rolling, wild and vague ; 

Within was black as night. 

" They dared not move, they could not weep, 
They could but lie and moan ; 

Some, not in mercy, to the deep, 

Like damaged wares, were thrown. 

" We cursed the dire disease that spread. 
And cross'd our golden dream ; 

Those goldless men did quake with dread 
To hear us thus blaspheme. 

" And so we drank, and drank the more, 
And each man pledged his mate; 

Here 's better luck, fi-om Gambia's shore, 
When next we load our freight. 

" Another morn, but one — the bark 

Lurch'd heavy on her way — 
The steersman shriek'd, ' Hell 's not so dark 

As this dull murky day.' 

" We look'd, and red through films of blood 

Glared forth his angry eye : 
Another, as he mann'd the shroud, 

Came toppling from on high. 

"Then each alone his hammock made. 

As the wild beast his lair. 
Nor friend his nearest fi-iend would aid, 

In dread his doom to share. 

" Yet every eve some eyes did close 

Upon the sunset bright, 
And when the glorious morn arose, 

It bore to them no light. 



"Till I, the only man, the last 

Of that dark brotherhood, 
To guide the helm, to rig the mast. 

To tend the daily food. 

" I felt it film, I felt it grow, 

The dim and misty scale, 
I could not see the compass now, 

I could not see the sail. 

" The sea was all a wavering fog, 

The sun a hazy lamp. 
As on some pestilential bog, 

The wandering wild-fire damp. 

" And there we lay, and on we drove. 
Heaved up, and pitching down ; 

Oh ! cruel grace of Him above, 
That would not let us drown. 

" And some began to pray for fear. 

And some began to swear ; 
Methought it was most dread to hear 

Upon such lips the prayer. 

"And some would fondly speak of home. 
The wife's, the infant's kiss; 

Great God I that parents e'er should come 
On such a trade as this ! 

" And some I heard plunge down beneath. 
And drown — that could not I : 

Oh! how my spirit yearn'd for death. 
Vet how I fear'd to die I 

" We heard the wild and frantic shriek 

Of starving men below, 
We heard them strive their bonds to breaks 

And burst the hatches now. 

" We thought we heard them on the stair, 

And trampling on the deck, 
I almost felt their blind despair, 

Wild grappling at ray neck. 

" Again I woke, and yet again. 

With throat as dry as dust, 
And famine in my heart and brain. 

And, — speak it out I must, — 

" A lawless, execrable thought, 

That scarce could be withstood. 

Before my loathing fancy brought 
Unutterable fijod. 

" No more, my brain can bear no more, — 
Nor more my tongue can tell ; 

I know 1 breathed no air, but bore 
A sick'ning grave-like smell. 

"And all, save I alone, could die — 
Thus on death's verge and brink 

All thoughtless, feelingless, could lie — 
I still must feel and think. 

"At length, when ages had pass'd o'er, 

Ages, it seem'd, of night, 
There came a shock, and then a roar 

Of billows in their might. 

452 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



443 



" I know not how, when next I woke, 
The numb waves wrapp'd me round. 

And in my loaded ears there broke 
A dizzy, bubbling sound. 

"Again I woke, and hving men 
Stood round — a Christian crew ; 

The first, the last, of joy was then, 
That since those days I knew. 

" I 've been, I know, since that black tide, 
Where raving madmen lay, 

Above, beneath, on ev'ry side, 
And 1 as mad as they. 

" And I shall be where never dies 
The worm, nor slakes the flame. 

When those two hundred souls shall rise, 
The judge's wrath to claim. 

" I 'd rather rave in that wild room 
Than see what I have seen ; 

I 'd rather meet my final dooiru 
Than be — where I have been. 

" Priest, I 've not seen thy loathing face, 
I've heard thy gasps of fear ; — 

Away — no word of hope or grace — 
I may not — will not hear ! " 



THE LOVE OF GOD. 



TWO SONNETS. 



I. 

Love Thee!— oh. Thou, the world's eternal Sire! 
Whose palace is the vast infinity. 
Time, space, height, depth, oh God ! are full of Thee, 
And sun-eyed seraphs tremble and admire. 
Love Thee ! — but "Thou art girt with vengeful fire, 
And mountains quake, and banded nations flee, 
And terror shakes the wide unfathom'd sea, 
When the heavens rock with thy tempestuous ire. 
Oh, Thou ! too vast for thought to comprehend. 
That wast ere time, — shalt be when time is o'er; 
Ages and worlds begin — grow old — and end. 
Systems and suns thy changeless throne before, 
Commence and close their cycles : — lost, I bend 
To earth my prostrate soul, and shudder and adore ! 

II 

Love Thee! — oh, clad in human lowliness, 

— In whom each heart its mortal kindred knows — 

Our flesh, our form, our tears, our pains, our woes, — 

A iellow-wanderer o'er earth's wilderness ! 

Love Thee! whose every word but breathes to bless! 

Through Thee, from long-seal'd lips, glad language 

flows ; 
The blind their eyes, that laugh with light, unclose; 
And babes, unchid. Thy garment's hem caress. 
— I see Thee, doom'd by bitterest pangs to die. 
Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps, move. 
With scourge, and taunt, and wanton agony. 
While the cross nods, in hideous gloom, above, 
Though all — even there— be radiant Deity ! 
—Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is Love ! 
3F 



■DEBORAH'S HYMN OF TRIUMPH. 

Thus sang Deborah and Barak, son of Abinoam, 

In the day of victory thus they sang: 

That Israel hath wrought her mighty vengeance, 

That the willing people rush'd to battle. 

Oh, therefore, praise Jehovah! 

Hear, ye kings ! give ear, ye princes ! 
I to Jehovah, I will lift the song, 
I will sound the harp to Jehovah, God of Israel ! 
Jehovah! when thou wentest forth from Seir! 
When thou marchedst through the fields of Edom ! 
Quaked the earth, and pour'd the heavens. 
Yea, the clouds pour'd down with water: 
Before Jehovah's face the mountains melted, 
That Sinai before Jehovah's face. 
The God of Israel. 

In the days of Shamgar, son of Anath, 

In Jael's days, untrodden were the highways. 

Through the winding by-path stole the traveller; - 

Upon the plains deserted lay the hamlets, 

Even till that I, till Deborah arose. 

Till I arose in Israel a mother. 

They chose new gods : 
War was in all their gates ! 
Was buckler seen, or lance, 
'Mong forty thousand sons of Israel ? 

My soul is yours, ye chiefs of Israel ! 
And ye, the self-devoted of the people. 
Praise ye the Lord with me ! 
Ye that ride upon the snow-white asses; 
Ye that sit to judge on rich divans 
Ye that plod on foot the open way. 
Come, meditate the song. 

For the noise of plundering archers by the wells of 

water. 
Now they meet and sing aloud Jehovah's righteous 

acts ; 
His righteous acts the hamlets sing upon the open 

plains. 
And enter their deserted gates the people of Jehovah. 

Awake, Deborah ! awake ! 

Awake, uplift the song! 

Barak, awake ! and lead your captives captive, 

Thou son of Abinoam! 

With him a valiant few went down against the mighty. 
With me Jehovah's people went down against the 
strong. 

First Ephraim, from the Mount of Amalek, 
And after thee, the bands of Benjamin ! 
From Machir came the rulers of the people, 
From Zebulon those that bear the marshal's slafT; 
And Issachar's brave princes came with Deborah, 
Issachar, the strength of Barak : 
They burst into the valley on his footsteps. 

453 



444 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



By Reuben's fountains there was deep debating — 
Why sat'st thou idle, Reuben, 'mid thy herd-stalls? 
Was it to hear the lowing of thy cattle ? 
By Reuben's fountains there was deep debating — 

And Gilead linger'd on the shores of Jordan — 
And Dan, why dwell'd he among his ships? — 
And Asser dwell'd in his sea-shore havens, 
And sate upon his rock precipitous. 
But Zebulon was a death-defying people. 
And Napthali from off the mountain heights. 

Came the kings and fought. 
Fought the kings of Canaan, 
By Tannach, by Megiddo's waters. 
For the golden booty that they won not. 

From the heavens they fought 'gainst Sisera, 
In their courses fought the stars against him : 
The torrent Kishon swept them down, 
That ancient river Kishon. 
So trample thou, my soul, upon their might. 

Then stamp'd the clattering hoofs of prancing horses 
At the flight, at the flight of the mighty. 

Curse ye Meroz, saith the angel of the Lord, 
Curse, a twofold curse upon her dastard sons ; 
For they came not to the succour of Jehovah, 
To the succour of Jehovah 'gainst the mighty. 

Above all women blest be Jael, 

Heber the Kenite's wife, 

O'er all the women blest, that dwell in tents. 

Water he ask'd — she gave him milk, 
The curded milk, in her costliest bowl. 

Her left hand to the nail she set. 

Her right hand to the workman's hammer — 

Then Sisera she smote — she clave his head 

She bruised — she pierced his temples. 

At her feet he bow'd ; he fell ; he lay; 

At her feet he bow'd ; he fell ; 

Where he bow'd, there he fell dead. 

From the window she look'il forth, she cried, 
The mother of Sisera, through the lattice: 
"Why is his chariot so long in coming? 
Why tarry the wheels of his chariot ?" 
Her prudent women answer'd her — 
Yea, she herself gave answer to herself — 
"Have they not seized, not shared the spoil? 
One damsel, or two damsels to each chief? 
To Sisera a many-coloured rohe, 
A many-coloured robe, and richly broider'd, 
Many-colour'd, and broider'd round the neck." 

Thus perish all thine enemies, Jehovah ; 

And those who love thee, like the sun, shine forth, 

The sun in all its glory.* 

* In the above translation nn attempt is made to preserve 
something like a rhythmical flow. It adheres to the original 
language, excepting whore an occasional word is, but rarely, 
inserted, for the sake of perspicuity. 



DOWNFALL OF JERUSALEM; FROM THE 
BOOK OF JEREMIAH. 

How solitary doth she sit, the many-peopled city ! 
She is become a widow, the great among the Nations; 
The Queen among the provinces, how is she tributary! 

Weeping — weeps she all the night; the tears are on 

her cheeks ; 
From among all her lovers, she hath no comforter; 
Her friends have all dealt treacherously ; they are 

become her foes. i. 1, 2. 

The ways of Sion mourn : none come up to her feasts. 
All her gates are desolate; and her Priests do sigh; 
Her virgins wail! herself, she is in bitterness. — i. 4. 

He hath pluck'd up his garden-hedge. He hath de- 
stroy 'd His Temple ; 

Jehovah hath forgotten made the solemn feast and 
Sabbath ; 

And in the heat of ire He hath rejected King and 
Priest. 

The Lord his altar hath disdain'd, abhorred his Holy 

place. 
And to the adversary's hand given up his palace 

walls ; 
Our foes shout in Jehovah's house, as on a festal day. 

ii. 7, 8. 

Her gates are sunk into the earth, he hath broke 

through her bars ; 
Her Monarch and her Princes are now among the 

Heathen ; 
The Law hath ceased ; the Prophets find no vision 

from Jehovah. ii. 10. 

My eyes do fail with tears ; and troubled are my 
bowels ; 

My heart's blood gushes on the earth, for the daugh- 
ter of my people ; 

Children and suckling babes lie swooning in the 
squares — 

They say unto their Mothers, where is corn and wine? 
They swoon as they were woimded, in the city 

squares ; 
While glides the soul away into their Mother's bosom. 

ii. 11, 12. 

Even dragons, with their breasts drawn out, give suck 

unto their young ; 
But cruel is my people's daughter, as the ostrich in 

the desert ; 
The tongues of sucking infants to their palates cleave 

with thirst. 

Young children ask for bread, and no man breaks it 

for them ; 
Those that fed on dainties are desolate in the streets; 
Those brought up in scarlet, even those embrace the 

dunghill. iv. 3, 4, 5. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



445 



Behold, Jehovah, think to whom thou e'er hast deal'd 

thus! 
Have women ever eat their young, babes fondled in 

their hands ? 
Have Priest and Prophet e'er been slain in the Lord's 

Holy place? 

In the streets, upon the ground, lie slain the young 

and old ; 
My virgins and my youth have fallen by the sword ; 
In thy wrath thou'st slain them, thou hast had no 

mercy. 

Thou hast summon'd all my terrors, as to a solemn 

feast ; 
None 'scaped, and none was left in Jehovah's day of 

wrath ; 
All that mine arms have borne and nursed, the enemy 

hath slain. ii. 20. 1, 2. 

Remember, Lord what hath befallen, 

Look down on our reproach. 
Our heritage is given to stangers. 

Our home to foreigners. 
Our water have we drank for money, 

Our fuel hath its price — v. 1, 2, 3. 

We stretch our hands to Egypt, 

To Assyria for our bread. 
At our life's risk we gain our food. 

From the sword of desert robbers. 
Our skins are like an oven, parched, 

By the fierce heat of famine. 
Matrons in Sion have they ravish'd, 

Virgins in Judah's cities. 
Princes were hung up by the hand, 

And age had no respect. 
Young men are grinding at the mill, 

Boys faint 'neath loads of wood. 
The Elders from the gate have ceased, 

The young men from their music. 
The crown is fallen from her head, 

Woe! woe! that we have sinn'd. 
'Tis therefore that our hearts are faint, 

Therefore our eyes are dim. 
For Sion's mountain desolate, 

The foxes walk on it. 



HYMNS FOR CHURCH SERVICE. 

SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT. 

The chariot ! the chariot ! its wheels roil on fire 
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire: 
Self-moving it drives on its pathway of cloud, 

j And the Heavens with the burthen of Godhead are 
bow'd. 

\ 

! The glory ! the glory ! by myriads are pour'd 
The host of the Angels to wait on their Lord, 
And the glorified saints and the martyrs are there, 
And all who the palm-wreath of victory wear. 

The trumpet ! the trumpet! the dead have all heard : 
Lo, the depths of the stone-cover'd charnel are stirr'd : 



From the sea, from the land, from the south and the 

north. 
The vast generations of men are come forth. 

The judgment ! the judgment ! the thrones are all set. 
Where the Lamb and the white-vested Elders are met I 
All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord, 
And the doom of eternity hangs on His word ! 

Oh mercy ! oh mercy ! look down from above. 
Creator! on us thy sad children, with love! 
When beneath to their darkness the wicked are driven, 
May our sanctified souls find a mansion in heaven! 



FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 

Lord ! Thou didst arise and say 

To the troubled waters " Peace," 
And the tempest died away, 

Down they sank, the foamy seas ; 
And a calm and heaving sleep 
Spread o'er all the glassy deep. 
All the azure lake serene 
Like another heaven was seen I 

Lord ! Thy gracious word repeat 

To the billows of the proud ! 
Quell the tyrant's martial heat. 

Quell the fierce and changing crowd ' 
Then the eartii shall find repose 
From its restless strife and foes ; 
And an imaged Heaven appear 
On our world of darkness here! 



FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. 

The angel comes, he comes to reap 

The harvest of the Lord ! 
O'er all the earth with fatal sweep 

Wide waves his flamy sword. 

And who are they, in sheaves to bide 
The fire of Vengeance bound ! 

The tares, whose rank luxuriant pride 
Choked the fair crop around. 

And who are they, reserved in store 
God's treasure-house to fill ? 

The wheat a hundred-fold that bore 
Amid surrounding ill. 

O King of Mercy ! grant us power 

Thy fiery wrath to flee! 
In thy destroying angel's hour, 

O gather us to Thee ! 



QUINQUAGESIMA. 

Lord ! we sit and cry to Thee, 
Like the blind beside the way: 

Make our darken'd souls to see 
The glory of thy perfect day ! 

Lord ! rebuke oar sullen night. 

And give Thyself unto our sight! 



"155 



446 



MILMAN'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Lord ! we do not ask to gaze 
On our dim and earthly sun; 

But the light that still shall blaze 
When every star its course hath run : 

The light that gilds thy blest abode, 

The glory of the Lamb of God ! 



SECOND SUNDAY IN LENT. 

Oh help us, Lord ! each hour of need 
Thy heavenly succour give ; 

Help us in thought, and word, and deed, 
Each hour on earth we live. 

Oh help us, when our spirits bleed 

With contrite anguish sore. 
And when our hearts are cold and dead, 

O help us, Lord, the more. 

O help us, through the prayer of faith 

More firmly to believe; 
For still the more the servant hath, 

The more shall he receive. 

If strangers to Thy fold we call, 

Imploring at Thy feet 
The crums that from Thy table fall, 

'Tis all we dare entreat. 

But be it. Lord of Mercy, all, 
So Thou wilt grant but this ; 

The crums that from Thy table fall 
Are light, and life, and bliss. 

Oh help us, Jesus ! from on high. 
We know no help but Thee ; 

Oh ! help us so to live and die 
As thine in Heaven to be. 



SIXTH SUNDAY IN LENT. 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 
Hark! all the tribes Hosanna cry ! 
Thine humble beast pursues his road. 
With palms and scatter'd garments strow'd ! 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 

In lowly pomp ride on to die ! 

Oh Christ ! Thy triumphs now begin 

O'er captive death and conquer'd Sin ! 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 
The winged squadrons of the sky 
Look down with sad and wondering eyes, 
To see the approaching sacrifice ! 

Ride on ! ride on in majesty ! 
Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh ; 
The father on His sapphire throne 
Expects His own anointed Son ! 

Ride on! ride on in majesty! 

In lowly pomp ride on to die ! 

Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain ! 

Then take, oh God ! Thy power, and reign ! 



GOOD FRIDAY. 

Bound upon th' accursed tree. 
Faint and bleeding, who is He? 
By the eyes so pale and dim. 
Streaming blood and writhing limb, 
By the flesh with scourges torn, 
By the crown of twisted thorn. 
By the side so deeply pierced, 
By the baffled burning thirst. 
By the drooping death-dew'd brow. 
Son of Man! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou! 

Bound upon th' accursed tree. 
Dread and awful, who is He ? 
By the sun at noon-day pale, 
Shivering rocks, and rending veil, 
By earth that trembles at His doom, 
By yonder saints who buret their tomb, 
By Eden, promised ere He died 
To the felon at His side, 
Lord ! our suppliant knees we bow, 
Son of God ! 't is Thou ! 't is Thou ! 

Bound upon th' accursed tree, 

Sad and dying, who is He ? 

By the last and bitter cry 

The ghost given up in agony ; 

By the lifeless body laid 

In the chamber of the dead ; 

By the mourners come to weep 

Where the bones of Jesus sleep ; 

Crucified ! we know Thee now ; 

Son of Man ! 'I is Thou ! 't is Thou ! 

Bound upon th' accursed tree. 
Dread and awful, who is He ? 
By the prayer for them that slew, 
"Lord! they know not what they do!" 
By the spoil'd and empty grave, 
By the souls He died to save. 
By the conquest He hath won. 
By the saints before His throne, 
By the rainbow round His brow. 
Son of God ! 't is Thou ! 't is Thou ! 



SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Lord ! have mercy when we strive 
To save through Thee our souls alive ! 
When the pamper'd flesh is strong. 
When the strife is fierce and long; 
When our wakening thoughts begin. 
First to loathe their cherish'd sin. 
And our weary spirits fail. 
And our aching brows are pale. 
Oh then have mercy ! Lord ! 

Lord ! have mercy when we lie 
On the restless bed, and sigh. 
Sigh for Death, yet fear it still. 
From the thought of former ill ; 
When all other hope is gone; 
When our course is almost done : 

456 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



447 



When the dim advancing gloom 

Tells us that our hour is come, 

Oh then have mercy ! Lord ! 

Lord! have mercy when we know 
First how vain this world below; 
When the earliest gleam is given 
Of Thy bright but distant Heaven! 
When our darker thoughts oppress, 
Doubts perplex and fears distress, 
And our sadden'd spirits dwell 
On the open gates of Hell, 
Oh then have mercy! Lord! 



SIXTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

When our heads are bovv'd with woe, 
When our bitter tears o'erflovv ; 
When we mourn the lost, the dear, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn. 
Thou our mortal griefs hast borne, 
Thou hast shed the human tear : 
Gracious Son of Mary, bear! 

When the sullen death-bell tolls 
For our own departed souls ; 
When our final doom is near, 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 

Thou hast bow'd tlie dying head ; 
Thou the blood of life hast shed ; 
Thou hast fill'd a mortal bier: 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear! 

When the heart is sad within 
With the thought of all its sin ; 
When the spirit shrinks with fear. 
Gracious Son of Mary, hear! 

Thou the shame, the grief hast known, 
Though the sins were not thine own, 
Thou hast deign'd iheir load to bear. 
Gracious Son of Alary, hear ! 



SEVENTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Great God of Hosts ! come down in thy glory ! 

Shake earth and heaven with thine awful tread : 
Seal Thou the book of our world's dark story: 

Summon to judgment the quick and the dead! 
38 



Great God of Hosts ! come down to rule o'er us ! 

Long have we pray'd for thy peaceful reign : 
Change this sad earth to an Eden before us ; 

Make it the mansion of bliss again ! 

Great God of Hosts! the dreadful, the glorious! 

Come and set up thy kingly Throne. 
Over the legions of Hell victorious. 

Rule in the world of thy saints alone ! 



eighteenth SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

When God came down from Heav'n — the living 
God— 

What signs and wonders mark'd his stately way ? 
Brake out the winds in music where He trode ? 

Shone o'er the heav'ns a brighter, softer day ? 

The dumb began to speak, the blind to see. 

And the lame leap'd, and pain and paleness fled ; 

The mourner's sunken eye grew bright with glee, 
And from the tomb awoke ihe wondering dead ! 

When God went back to heav'n — the living God — 
Rode He the heavens upon a fiery car? 

Waved seraph-wings along his glorious road ? 
Stood still to wonder each bright wandering star ? 

LTpon the cross He hung, and bow'd the head. 
And pray'd for them that smote, and them that 
curst; 

And, drop by drop, his slow life-blood was shed, 
And his last hour of suffering was his worst ! 



TWENTIETH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. 

Lord, have mercy, and remove us 

Early to thy place of rest, 
Where the heavens are calm above us, 

And as calm each sainted breast! 

Holiest, hear us! by the anguish 
On the cross Thou didst endure. 

Let no more our sad hearts languish 
In this weary world obscure ! 

Gracious! — yet if our repentance 

Be not perfect and sincere. 
Lord, suspend thy fatal sentence. 

Leave us still in sadness here! 

Leave us, Saviour ! till our spirit 
From each earthly taint is free, 

Fit thy kingdom to inherit. 
Fit to take its rest with Thee! 

457 



THE 



otrfiYTf^ 



OF 



JOHN KEATS. 



€ontentfi;» 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS .. 
ENDYMION; a Poetic Romance. 



Page 

Y 

1 



LAMIA 34 

ISABELLA, OR THE POT OF BASIL; a 

Story from Boccaccio 40 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 44 

'hYPERION 48 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS:— 

Dedication to Leigh Hunt, Esq 55 

" I stood tiptoe upon a little hill " ib. 

Specimen of an Induction to a Poem .... 57 

Calidore ; a Fragment 58 

I To some Ladies on receiving a curious Shell 59 
On receiving a Copy of Verses from the 

same Ladies ib. 

To 60 

To Hope ib. 

Imitation of Spenser 61 

"Woman! when I behold thee flippant, vain" ib. 

I Ode to a Nightingale ib. 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 62 

Ode to Pysche 63 

Fancy ib. 

Ode 64 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern ib. 

Robin Hood 65 

To Autumn ib. 

Ode on Melancholy ib. 

Sleep and Poetry 66 

38* 3G 



Page 

Sonnet. To my Brother George 69 

To ib. 

Written on the day that Mr. Leigh 

Hunt left Prison ib. 

" How many bards gild the lapses 

of time ! " O, 

ToaFriend whosentmesomeRoses ib. 

ToG. A. W 70 

" O Solitude ! if I must with thee 

dwell " -. . . . ib. 

To my Brothers ib 

" Keen fitful gusts are whispering 

here and there " ib. 

" To one who has been long in 

city pent " ib. 

On first looking into Chapman's 

Homer ij. 

On leaving some Friends at an 

early hour ib. 

Addressed to Haydon 71 

the same ib. 

On the Grasshopper and Cricket . ib. 

To Kosciusko ib. 

" Happy is England ! I could be 

content " jj. 

The Human Seasons ib. 

On a Picture of Leander ib. 

To Ailsa Rock ib. 

Epistles. To George Felton Maihew 72 

To my Brother George ib. 

To Charles Cowden Clarke 74 

Stanzas 75 

527 



j^cmoit of Sotin W^tntn, 



The short career of John Keats was marked by 
the development of powers which liave been rarely 
exliibited in one at so immatared an age. He had 
but just completed his twenty-fourth year when 
he was snatched away from tlie world, and an end 
put for ever to a genius of a lofty and novel order. 
Certain party critics, who made it their object to 
lacerate the feelings, and endeavor to put down by 
vituperation and misplaced ridicule every effort 
which emanated not from their own servile de- 
pendants or followers, furiously attacked the wri- 
tings of Keats on their appearance. Their promise 
of greater excellence was unquestionable, their 
beauties were obvious, — but so also were defects, 
which might easily be made available for an attack 
upon the author ; and which certain writers of the 
Quarterly Review instantly seized upon to gratify 
party malice, — not against the author so much as 
against his friends. The unmerited abuse poured 
upon Keats by this periodical work is supposed to 
have liastened liis end, which was slowly ap- 
proaching when the criticism before-mentioned 
appeared. 

This original and singular example of poetical 
genius was of humble descent, and was born in 
Moorficlds, London, October 29, 1796, at a livery- 
stables which had belonged to his grandfather. 
He received a classical education at Enfield, under 
a Mr. Clarke, and was apprenticed to Mr. Ham- 
mond, a surgeon at Edmonton. The son of his 
schoolmaster Clarke encouraged the first germs of 
the poetical faculty which he early observed in the 
yoimg poet, and introduced him to Mr. Leigh 
Hunt, who is reported to have been the means of 
his introduction to the public. Keats was an indi- 
vidual of extreme sensitiveness, so that he would 
betray emotion even to tears on hearing a noble 
action recited, or at the mention of a glowing 
tliought or one of deep pathos : yet both his moral 
and personal courage were above all suspicion. 
His health was always delicate, for he had been 
a seven months' child ; and it appears that the 
symptoms of premature decay, or rather of fragile 
vitality, were long indicated by liis organization, 
before consumption decidedly displayed itself. 

The juvenile productions of Keats were pub- 
lished in 1817, the author being at that time in 
his twenty-first year. His favorite sojourn appears 
to have been Hampstead, the localities of which 



village were the scenes of his carUest abstractions, 
and the prompters of many of his best poetical 
productions : most of his personal friends, too, re- 
sided in the neighborhood. His first published 
volume, though the greater part of it was not 
above mediocrity, contained passages and lines of 
rare beauty. His political sentiments differing 
from those of the Quarterly Review, bemg manly 
and independent, were sins never to be forgiven ; 
and as in that party work literary judgment was 
always dealt out according to political congeniali- 
ty of feeling, with the known servility of its wri- 
ters, an autlior like Keats had no chance of being 
judged fairly. He was friendless and unknown, 
and could not even attract notice to a just com- 
plaint if he appealed to the pubhc, from his being 
yet obscure as an author. This Gifford, the editor 
of the Quarterly, well Icnew, and poured liis ma- 
lignity upon his unoffending victim in proportion 
as lie was conscious of the want of power m the 
object of his attack to resist it. A scion of nobility 
might have scribbled nonsense and been certain 
of applause ; but a singular genius springing up 
by its own vitality in an obscure corner, was by 
all means to be crushed. — Gifford had been a cob- 
bler, and the son of the livery-stable-keeper was 
not worthy of his critical toleration ! Thus it al- 
ways is with those narrow-minded persons who 
rise by the force of accident from vulgar obscu- 
rity : they cannot tolerate a brotlier, much less su- 
perior power or genius in tliat brother. On the 
publication of Keats's next work, " End3'mion,"' 
Gifford attacked it with all the bitterness of which 
his pen was capable, and did not hesitate, before 
he saw the work, to announce his intention of 
doing so to the publisher. Keats had endeavored, 
as much as was consistent with independent feel- 
ing, to conciliate tlie critics at large, as may be 
observed in his preface to that poem. He merited 
to be treated with indulgence, not womided by the 
envenomed sliafls of political animosity for literary 
errors. His book abounded in passages of true 
poetry, which were of course passed over ; and it 
is difficult to decide whctiier the cowardice or the 
cruelty of the attack upon it, most deserve execra- 
tion. Of great sensitiveness, as already observed, 
and his frame already touched by a mortal dis- 
temper, he felt his hopes withered, and his at- 
tempts to obtain honorable public notice in his 
529 



VI 



MEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 



own scantily allotted days frustrated. He was 
never to see liis honorable fame : this preyed upon 
his spirit and hastened his end, as has been alrea- 
dy noticed. The third and last of his works was 
the little volume (his best work) containing " La- 
mia," " Isabella," " The Eve of St. Agnes," and 
" Hyperion." — That he was not a finished writer, 
must be conceded ; that, like Kcerner in Germany, 
he gave rich promise rather than matured fruit, 
may be granted; but they must indeed be ill 
judges of genius who are not delighted with what 
he left, and do not see that, had he lived, he might 
have worn a wreath of renown which time would 
not easily have withered. His was indeed an " un- 
toward fate," as Byron observes of liim in the 
eleventh canto of " Don Juan." 

For several years before his death, Keats had 
felt that the disease which preyed upon him was 
mortal, — that the agents of decay were at work 
upon a body too imperfectly organized, or too 
feebly constructed to sustain long the fire of exist- 
ence. He had neglected his own health to attend 
a brother on his death-bed, when it would have 
been far more prudent that he had recollected it 
was necessary he should take care of himself 
Under the bereavement of this brother he was 
combating his keen feelings, when the Zoilus of 
the Quarterly so ferociously attacked him. The 
excitement of spirit was too much for his frame to 
sustain ; and a blow from another quarter, coming 
about the same time, shoolc him so much, that he 
told a friend with tears " his heart was breaking." 
— He was now persuaded to try the climate of 
Italy, the refuge of those who have no more to 
hope for in their own ; but v/hich is commonly de- 
layed until the removal only leads the traveller to 
the tomb. Thither he went to die. He was ac- 
companied by Mr. Severn, an artist of considerable 
talent, well known since in Rome. Mr. Severn 
was a valuable and attached friend of the poet ; 
and they went first to Naples, and thence journey- 
ed to Rome, — where Keats closed his eyes on the 
world on the 24th of February, 1821. He wished 
ardently for death before it came. The springs of 
vitality were left nearly dry long before ; his lin- 
gering as he did astonished his medical attendants. 
His sufferings were great, but he was all resigna- 
tion. He said, not long before he died, that he 
" felt the flowers growing over him." 

On the examination of his body, post mortem, 
by his physicians, they found that life rarely so 
long tenanted a body shattered as his was : liis 
lungs were well-nigh annihilated.— His remains 
were deposited in the cemetery of the Protestants 
at Rome, at the foot of the pyramid of Caius Ces- 
tius, near the Porta San Paolo, where a white 
marble tombstone, bearing the following inscrip- 
tion, surmounted by a lyre in basso relievo, has 
been erected to his memory : — 



This Grave 
contains all that was mortal 

of a 

YOUNG ENGLISH POET, 

wlio, 

on his death-bed, 

in the bitterness of his heart 

at the malicious power of his enemies, 

desired 

these words to be engraved on his tombstone— 

HERE LIES ONE 
WHOSE NAME WAS WRIT IN WATER. 

Feb. 24lh, 1821. 



The physiognomy of the young poet indicated 
his character. Sensibility was predominant, but 
there was no deficiency of power. His features 
were well-defined, and delicately susceptible of 
every impression. His eyes were large and dark, 
but his cheeks were sunk, and his face pale when 
he was tranquil. His hair was of a brown color, 
and curled naturally. His head was small, and 
set upon broad high shoulders, and a body dispro- 
portionately large to his lower limbs, which, how- 
ever, were well-made. His stature was low ; and 
his hands, says a friend (Mr. L. Hunt), were 
faded, having prominent veins — which he would 
look upon, and pronounce to belong to one who 
had seen fifty 3'ears. His temper was of the gen- 
tlest description, and he felt deeply all favors con- 
ferred upon him : in fact, he was one of those 
marked and rare characters which genius stamps 
from their birth in her own mould; and whose 
early consignment to the tomb has, it is most 
probable, deprived the world of works calculated 
to delight, if not to astonish mankind — of produc- 
tions to which every congenial spirit and kind 
quality of the human heart would have done 
homage, and confessed the power. It is to be la- 
mented that such promise should have been so 
prematurely blighted. 

Scattered through the writings of Keats will 
be found passages which come home to every 
bosom alive to each nobler and kindlier feeling of 
the human heart. There is much in them to be 
corrected, much to be altered for the better ; but 
there are sparkling gems of the first lustre every- 
where to be found. It is strange, that in civilized 
societies writings should be judged of, not by their 
merits, but by the faction to which their author 
belongs, though their productions may be solely 
confined to subjects the most remote from eontro 
versy. In England, a party-man must yield up 
every thing to the opinions and dogmatism of his 
caste. He must reject truths, pervert reason, mis- 
represent all things coming from an opponent of 
another creed in religion or politics. Such a state 
of virulent and lamentable narrow-mindedness, is 
the most certain that can exist for blighting the 
tender blossoms of genius, and blasting the inno- 
cent and virtuous hopes of the young aspirant af- 
ter honest fame. It is not necessary that a young 
530 



AIEMOIR OF JOHN KEATS. 



and ardent mind avow principles hostile to those 
who set up for its enemies — if he be but the friend 
of a friend openly opposed to them, it is enough; 
and the worst is, that tlie hostility displayed is 
neither limited by trutli and candor, sound princi- 
ples of criticism, humanity, or honorable feeling : 
it fights witli all weapons, in the dark or in the 
light, by craft, or in any mode to obtain its bitter 
objects. The critics who liastened the end of 
Keats, had his works been set before them as being 
chose of an unknown writer, would have acknow- 
ledged their talent, and applauded where it was 
due, for their attacks upon liim were not made 
jfrom lack of judgment, but from wilful hostility. 
One knows not how to characterize such demonia- 



cal insmcerity. Keats bcJonged to a school of 
politics which they from their ambush anathema- 
tized :— hence, and hence alone, their malice to- 
wards him. 

Keats was, as a poet, like a rich fruit-tree whicli 
the gardener has not pruned of its luxuriance : 
time, had it been allotted him by Heaven, would 
have seen it as trim and rich as any brother of the 
garden. It is and will ever be regretted by the 
readers of his works, that he lingered no longer 
among living men, to bring to perfection what lie 
meditated, to contribute to British literature a 
greater name, and to delight the lovers of true 
poetry with tlie rich melody of his musically em- 
bodied tlioughts. 

531 



THE 

POETICAL WORKS 

OF 



iSuTrjjmion; 



A POETIC ROMANCE. 

INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON. 



The stretched metre of an Antique Song. 



PREFACE. 



Knowing within myself the manner in which this 
Poem has been produced, it is not without a feeling 
of regret that I make it public. 

What manner I mean, will be quite clear to the 
reader, who must soon perceive great inexperience, 
immaturity, and every error denoting a feverish at- 
tempt, rather than a deed accomplished. The two 
first books, and indeed the two last, I feel sensible 
are not of such completion as to warrant their passing 
the press ; nor should they, if I thought a year's cas- 
tigation would do them any good ; — it will not : the 
foundations are too sandy. It is just that this youngster 
should die away : a sad thought for me, if I had not 
some hope that while it is dwindling I may be plot- 
ting, and fitting myself for verses fit to live. 

This may be speaking too presumptuously, and 
may deserve a punishment : but no feeling man will 
'le forward to inflict it: he will leave me alone, with 
lie conviction that there is not a fiercer hell than the 
failure in a great object. This is not written with 
the least atom of purpose to forestall criticisms of 
course, but from the desire I have to conciliate men 
who are competent to look, and who do look with a 
jealous eye, to the honor of English literature. 

The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the ma- 
ture imagination of a man is heallhy ; but there is a 
space of life between, in which the soul is in a fer- 
ment, the character undecided, the way of life un- 
certain, the ambition thick-sighted : thence proceed 
mavvkishness, and all the thousand bitters which 
those men I speak of, must necessarily taste in going 
over the following pages. 

I hope I have not in too late a day touched the 
beautiful mythology of Greece, and dulled its bright- 
ness : for I wish to try once more, before I bid it 
farewell. 



Teignmouth, April 10, 1818. 



ENDYMION. 



BOOK I. 

A THi.\G of beauty is a joy for ever : 

Its loveliness increases ; it will never 

Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing 

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the earth. 

Spite of despondence, of th' inhuman dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darken'd ways 

Made for our searching : yes, in spite of all, 

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall 

From our dark spirils. Such the sun, the moon, 

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon 

For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils 

With the green world they live in ; and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert make 

'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake. 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms- 

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms 

We have imagined fijr the mighty dead ; 

All lovely tales that we have heard or read: 

An endless fountain of immortal drink. 

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink. 

Nor do we merely feel these essences 
For one short hour ; no, even as the trees 
That whisper round a temple become soon 
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, 
The passion poesy, glories infinite. 
Haunt us till they become a cheering light 
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast. 
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast. 
They always must be with us, or we die. 
533 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I 
Will trace the story of Endymion. 
The very music uf the name has gone 
Into my being, and each pleasant scene 
Is growing fresh before me as the green 
Of our own valleys : so I will begin 
Now while I cannot hear the city's din ; 
Now while the early budders are just new, 
And run in mazes of the youngest hue 
About old forests ; wliile the willow trails 
Its delicate amber ; and the dairy pails 
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year 
Grows lush in juicy stalks, 1 '11 smoothly steer 
My little boat, lor many quiet hours, 
Willi streams that deepen freshly into bowers. 
Many and many a verse I hope to write, 
Before tiie daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white, 
Hide in deep herbage ; and ere yet the bees 
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas, 
I must be near the middle of my story. 
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary. 
See it half fmish'd : but let Autumn bold, 
With universal tinge of sober gold. 
Be all about me when I make an end. 
And now at once, adventuresome, I send 
My herald thought into a wilderness: 
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress 
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed 
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed. 



Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread 
A mighty forest ; for the moist earth fed 
So plenteously all weed-hidden roots 
Into o'erhanging boughs, and precious fruits. 
And it had gloomy shades, sequester'd deep. 
Where no man went ; and if from shepherd's keep 
A Iamb stray 'd far adown those inmost glens, 
Never again saw he the happy pens 
Whither his brethren, bleating with content, 
Over the hills at every nightfall went. 
Among the shepherds 't was believed ever, 
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever 
From the white flock, but pass'd unworried 
By any wolf, or pard whh prying head. 
Until it came to some unfooted plains 
Where fed the herds of Pan : ay, great his gains 
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many, 
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny, 
And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly 
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see 
Stems thronging all around between the swell 
Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell 
The freshness of the space of heaven above. 
Edged round with dark tree-tops ? through which a 

dove 
Would often beat its wings, and often too 
A little cloud would move across the blue. 



Full in the middle of this pleasantness 
There stood a marble altar, with a tress 
Of flowers budded newly ; and the dew 
Had taken fairy fantasies to strew 
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve. 
And so the dawned light in pomp receive. 
For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire 
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre 



Of brightness so unsullied, that therein 

A melancholy spirit well might win 

Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine 

Into the winds : rain-scented eglantine 

Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun ; 

The lark was lost in him ; cold springs had run 

To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass ; 

Man's voice was on the mountains ; and the mass 

Of nature's lives and wonders pulsed tenfold. 

To feel this sunrise and its glories old. 

Now while the silent workings of the dawn 
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn 
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped 
A troop of little children garlanded ; 
Who, gathering roimd the altar, seem'd to pry 
Earnestly round as wishing to espy 
Some folk of holiday : nor had thoy waited 
For many moments, ere their ears were sated 
With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then 
Fill'd out its voice, and died away again. 
Within a little space again it gave 
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave. 
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking 
Through copse-clad valleys, — ere their death, o'ei- 

taking 
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea. 

And now, as deep into the wood as we 
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmer'd light 
Fair faces and a rush of garments wiiite. 
Plainer and plainer showing, till at last 
Into the widest alley they all past. 
Making directly for the woodland altar. 
O kindly muse ! let not my weak tongue falter 
In telling of this goodly company. 
Of their old piety, and of their glee : 
But let a portion of ethereal dew 
Fall on my head, and presently unmew 
My soul ; that I may dare, in wayfaring, 
To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing. 



Leading the way, young damsels danced along, 
Bearing the burden of a shepherd's song ; 
Each having a white wicker over-hrimm'd 
With April's tender younglings : next, well trimm'd 
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks 
As may be read of in Arcadian books ; 
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe. 
When the great deity, for earth loo ripe, 
Let his divinity o'erflowing die 
In music, through the vales of Thessaly : 
Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground 
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound 
With ebon-tipped flutes : close after these. 
Now coming from beneath the forest trees, 
A venerable priest full soberly. 
Begirt with ministering looks : alway his eye 
Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept. 
And after him his sacred vestments swept. 
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white 
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light ; 
And in his left he held a basket full 
Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull • 
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still 
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. 
534 



ENDYMION. 



His aged head, crown'd wilh beechen wreath, 

Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teelh 

Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd 

Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud 

Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd, 

Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd 

Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car 

Easily rolling so as scarce to mar 

The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown : 

Who stood therein did seem of great renown 

Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, 

Sliowing like Ganymede to manhood grown ; 

And, for those simple times, his garments were 

A chieflain king's : beneath his breast, half bare, 

Was hung a silver bugle, and between 

His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. 

A smile was on his countenance ; he seem'd. 

To common lookers-on, like one who dream'd 

Of idleness in groves Elysian : 

But there were some who feelingly could scan 

A lurkmg trouble in his nether lip, 

And see that oftentimes the reins would slip 

Tlirough his forgotten hands: then would they sigh. 

And tliink of yellow leaves, of owlets' cry. 

Of logs piled solemnly. — Ah, well-a-day. 

Why should our young Endymion pine away ! 

Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged. 
Stood silent round the shrine: each look was changed 
To sudden veneration : women meek 
Beckon'd their sons to silence ; while each cheek 
Of virgin bloom paled gently for slight fear. 
Endymion too, without a forest peer, 
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face, 
Among his brothers of the mountain chase. 
In midst of all, the venerable priest 
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least, 
And, after lifting up his aged hands, 
Thus spake he : " Men of Latmos I shepherd bands ! 
Whose care it is to guard a thousand Hocks : 
Whether descended from beneath the rocks 
That overtop your mountains ; whether come 
From valleys where the pipe is never dumb; 
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs 
Blue harebells lightly, and where prickly furze 
Buds lavish gold ; or ye, whose precious charge 
Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge. 
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn 
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn : 
Mothers and wives ! who day by day prepare 
The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air ; 
And all ye gentle girls who foster up 
Udderless lambs, and in a lillle cup 
Will put choice honey for a favor'd youth : 
Yea, every one attend ! for in good truth 
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. 
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than 
Nighl-swolien mushrooms ? Are not our wide plains 
Speckled with countless fleeces ? Have not rains 
Green'd over April's lap ? No howling sad 
• Siclieris our fearful ewes; and we have had 
Great bounty from Endymion our lord. 
The earth is glad : the merry lark has pour'd 
His early song against yon breezy sky. 
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity." 

I Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire 
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire ; 
3J 3H 



Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod 
With wine, in honor of the shepherd-god. 
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while 
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile. 
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright 
'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light 
Spread grayly eastward, thus a chorus sang : 



" O thou, whose mighty palace roof doth hang 
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth 
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death 
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness ; 
Who lovest to see the hamadryads dress 
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken ; 
And through whole solemn hours (fost sit, and hearken 
The dreary melody of bedded reeds — 
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds 
Tiie pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth, 
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth 
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx — do thou now, 
By thy love's milky brow ! 
By all the trembling mazes that she ran, 
Hear us, great Pan ! 



"O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles 
Passion their voices cooingly 'mong myrtles, 
What time thou wanderest at eventide 
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side 
Of thine enmossed realms : O thou, to whom 
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom 
Their ripen'd fruitage ; yellow-girted bees 
Their golden honeycombs ; our village leas 
Their fairest blossom'd beans and poppied corn; 
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn, 
To sing for thee ; low creeping strawberries 
Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies 
Their freckled wings ; yea, the fresh budding year 
All its completions — be quickly near. 
By every wind that nods the mountain pine, 
forester divine ! 



" Thou, to whom every faun and satyr flies 
For willing service; whether to surprise 
The squatted hare while in half-sleeping fit ; 
Or upward ragged precipices flit 
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw ; 
Or by mysterious enticement ilraw 
Bewildcr'd shepherds to their path again ; 
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, 
And gather up all fancifullest shells 
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, 
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; 
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping. 
The while they pelt each other on the crown 
With silvery oak-apples, and fir-cones brown — 
By all the echoes tliat about thee ring, 
Hear us, satyr king ! 



" O Hearkener to the loud-clapping shears. 
While ever and anon to his shorn peers 
A ram goes bleating : Winder of the horn, 
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn 
Anger our huntsman: Breaiiier round our farT« 
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms : 
535 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Strange ministrant of nndescribed sounds, 
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, 
And witjier drearily on barren miwrs : 
Dread openc of the mysterious doors 
Leading to universal knowledge — see, 
Great son of Uryope, 

The many that are come to pay their vows 
With lea", ts about their brows! 

" Be still the unimaginable lodge 
For solilary tliinivings; sucii as dodge 
Conception to the veiy bourn of" Heaven, 
'J'hen Ifuve ilie naked brain : be still the leaven, 
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth. 
Gives it a touch ethereal — a new birth: 
Be still a symbol of immensity; 
A firmament reflected in a sea ; 
An element filling the space between ; 
An unknown — but no more : we humbly screen 
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending, 
And giving out a shout most heaven-rending. 
Conjure thee to receive our humble Pagan, 
Upon thy Mount Lycean ! " 

Even while they brought the burden to a close, 
A shout from the whole multitude arose. 
That linger'd in the air like dying rolls 
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals 
Of dolpliins bob iheir noses through the brine. 
Aleantime, on shady levels, mossy fine, 
Young companies nimbly began dancing 
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string. 
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly 
To tunes forgotten — out of memory : 
Fair creatures! whose young childrens' children bred 
Thcrmopyla! its heroes — not yet dead. 
But in old marbles ever beautiful. 
High genitoi-s, unconscious did they cull 
Time's sweet first-fruits — they danced to weariness. 
And then in quiet circles did they press 
The hillock turf, and caught the latter end 
Of some strange iiislory, potent to send 
A young mind from its bodily tenement. 
Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent 
On either side ; pitying the sad death 
Of Ilyacinthus, when the cruel breath 
Of Zephyr slew him, — Zephyr penitent. 
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, 
T'ondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. 
The archers too, upon a wider plain. 
Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft. 
And ihc dull twanging bowstring, and the raft 
Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top, 
Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelop 
Tiiose who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee 
And frantic gape of lonely Miobe, 
Poor, lonely Niobe ! when her lovely young 
AVere dead and gone, and her caressing tongue 
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip. 
And very, very deadliness did nip 
Ker motherly cheeks. Aroused from this sad mood 
By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd, 
Uplifting his strong bow into tlie air, 
Alany might after brighter visions stare : 
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze 
Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways, 



Until, from the horizon's vaulted side. 

There shot a golden splendor far and wide, 

Spangling those million poutings of the brine 

With quivering ore : 't was even an awful shine 

From the exaltation of Apollo's bow ; 

A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe. 

Who thus were ripe for high contemplating. 

Might turn their steps towards the sober ring 

Where sat Endymion and the aged priest 

'Mong shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increased 

The silvery setting of their mortal star. 

There they discoursed upon the fragile bar 

That keeps us irom our homes ethereal ; 

And what our duties there : to nightly call 

Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather ; 

To summon all the downiest clouds together 

For the sun's purple couch ; to emulate 

In ministering the potent rule of fate 

With speed of fire-tail'd exhalations ; 

To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons 

Sweet poesy by moonlight : besides these, 

A world of other unguess'd offices. 

Anon they wander'd, by divine converse, 

Into Elysium ; vying to rehearse 

Each one his own anticipated bliss. 

One felt heart-certain that he could not miss 

His quick-gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs. 

Where every zephyr-sigh pouts, and endows 

Her lips with music for the welcoming. 

Another wish'd, 'mid that eternal spring, 

To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails. 

Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales : 

Who,- suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind 

And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind; 

And, ever after, through those regions be 

His messenger, his little Mercury. 

Some were athirst in soul to see again 

Their fellow-huntsmen o'er the wide champaign 

In times long past ; to sit wilh them, and talk 

Of all the chances in their earthly walk ; 

Comparing, joyfully, their plenteous stores 

Of happiness, to when upon the moors, 

Benighted, close they huddled from the cold, 

And shared iheir famish'd scrips. Thus all out-told 

Their fond imaginations, — saving him 

Whose eyelids curtain'd up their jewels dim, 

Endymion : yet hourly had he striven 

To hide the cankering venom, that had riven 

His fainting recollections. IVow indeed 

His senses had swoon'd off: he did not heed 

The sudden silence, or the whispers low. 

Or the old eyes dissolving at his woe. 

Or anxious cal'is, or close of trembling palms, 

Or maiden's sigh, that grief itself embalms : 

But in the self-same fixed trance he kept, 

Like one who on the earth had never slept 

Aye, even as dead-still as a marble man. 

Frozen in that old tale Arabian. 

Who whispers him so pantingly and close ? 
Peona, his sweet sister : of all those. 
His friends, the dearest. Hushing signs she made 
And breathed a sister's sorrow to persuade 
A yielding up, a cradling on her care. 
Her eloquence did breathe away the curse : 
She led him, like some midnight spirit nurse 
536 



ENDYMION. 



Of happy changes in emphatic dreams, 

Along a path between two little streams, — 

Guarding his forehead, with her round elbow, 

From low-grown branches, and his footsteps slow 

From stumbling over stumps and hillocks small ; 

Until they came to where these streamlets fall, 

With mingled bubblings and a gentle rush, 

Into a river, clear, brimful, and flush 

With crystal mocking of the trees and sky. 

A little shallop floating there hard by. 

Pointed its beak over the fringed bank ; 

And soon it lightly dipt, and rose, and sank. 

And dipt again, with the young couple's weight, — 

Peona guiding, through the water straight, 

Towards a bowery island opposite ; 

Which gaining presently, she steered light 

Into a shady, fresh, and ripply cove. 

Where nested was an arbor, overwove 

By many a summer's silent fingering ; 

To whose cool bosom she was used to bring 

Her playmates, with their needle broidery, 

And minstrel memories of times gone by. 



So she was gently glad to see him laid 
Under her favorite bovver's quiet shade. 
On her own couch, new made of flower leaves, 
Dried carefully on the cooler side of sheaves 
When last the sun his autumn tresses shook, 
And the tann'd harvesters rich armfuls took. 
Soon was he quieted to slumbrous rest: 
But, ere it crept upon him, he had prest 
Peona's busy hand against his lips, 
And still, a-sleeping, held her finger-tips 
In tender pressure. And as a willow keeps 
A patient watch over the stream that creeps 
Windingly by it, so the quiet maid 
Held her in peace : so that a whispering blade 
Of grass, a wailful gnat, a bee bustling 
Down in the blue-bells, or a wren light rustling 
Among sere leaves and twigs, might all be heard. 



O magic sleep ! O comfortable bird. 
That broodest o'er the troubled sea of the mind 
Till it is hush'd and smooth I O unconfiued 
Restraint! imprison'd liberty! great key 
To golden palaces, strange minstrelsy, 
Fountains grotesque, new trees, bespangled caves, 
Echoing grottoes, full of tumbling waves 
And mooidight ; aye, to all the mazy world 
Of silvery enchantment! — who, upfurl'd 
Beneath thy drowsy wing a triple hour. 
But renovates and lives ? — Thus, in the bower, 
Endymion was calm'd to life again. 
Opening his eyelids with a healthier brain. 
He said : " I feel this thine endearing love 
All through my bosom : thou art as a dove 
Trembling its closed eyes and sleeked wings 
About me ; and the pearliest dew not brings 
Such morning incense from the fields of May, 
As do those brighter drojjs that twinkling stray 
From those kind eyes, — the very home and haunt 
Of sisterly afl!ection. Can I want 
Aught else, aught nearer heaven, than such tears ? 
Yet dry them up, in bidding hence all fears 
That, any longer, I will pass my days 
Alone and sad. No, I will once more raise 



My voice upon the mountain-heights; once more 
Make my horn parley from their foreheads hoar: 
Again my trooping hounds tiieir tongues sliall loll 
Around the breathed boar: again I'll poll 
The fair-grown yew-tree, for a clioscu liow : 
And, when the pleasant sun is getting low. 
Again I '11 linger in a sloping mead 
To hear the speckled thrushes, and see feed 
Our idle .sheep. So be thou cheered, sweet! 
And, if thy lute is here, softly entreat 
My soul to keep in its resolved course." 

Hereat Peona, in their silver source, 
Shut her pure sorrow-drops with glad exclaim. 
And took a lute, from which there pulsing came 
A lively prelude, fashioning the way 
In which her voice should wander. 'Twas a lay 
More subtle cadeneed, more forest wild 
Than Dryope's lone lulling of her child ; 
And nothing since has floated in the air 
So mournful strange. Surely some influence rare 
Went, spiritual, through the dani.scl's hand ; 
For still, with Delphic emphasis, she spanu'd 
The quick invisible strings, even though .she saw 
Endymion's spirit melt away and thaw 
Before the deep intoxication. 
But soon she came, with sudden burst, upon 
Her self-possession — swung tlie lute aside. 
And earnestly said : " Brollier, 'tis vain to hide 
That thou dost know of things mysterious. 
Immortal, starry ; such alone could thus 
Weigh down thy nature. Hast thou sinn'd in aught 
Oflfensive to the heavenly powers ? Caught 
A Paphian dove upon a message sent ? 
Thy deathful bow against some deer-herd bent. 
Sacred to Dian ? Haply, thou hast seen 
Her naked limbs among the alders green ; 
And that, alas! is death. No, I can trace 
Something more high perplexing in thy face ! " 

Endymion look'd at her, and press'd her hand. 
And said, " Art thou so pale, who wast sso bland 
And merry in our meadows ? How is this ? 
Tell me thine ailment : tell me all amiss ! — 
Ah! thou hast been unhappy at tiie change 
Wrought suddenly in me. What indeed more strange? 
Or more complete to overwhelm surmise ? 
Ambition is no sluggard: 'tis no prize. 
That toiling years would put within my grasp. 
That I have sigh'd for : with so deadly gasp 
No man e'er panted ibr a mortal love. 
So all have set my heavier grief aliove 
These things which happen. Rightly have they done • 
I, who still saw the horizontal sun 
Heave his broad shouldei o'er the edge of the world, 
Out-facing Lucifer, and then had hurl'd 
My spear aloft, as signal for the chase — 
I, who, for very s)x)rt of heart, would rare 
With my own steed from Araby; pluck down 
A vulture from his towery ])erching ; frown 
A lion into growling, loth retire — 
To lose, at once, all my toil-breeding firo, 
And sink thus low I but I will ease my breast 
Of secret grief, here in this bowery nest. 

" This river does not see the naked sky. 
Till it begins to progress silverly 

537 



G 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Around the western border of the wood, 

V/lience, from a certain spot, its winding flood 

Seems at tlie distance like a crescent moon : 

And in that nook, the very pride of June, 

Had I been used to pass my weary eves ; 

The rather for the sun unwilhng leaves 

So dear a picture of his sovereign power, 

And I could witness his most kingly hour, 

When he doth lighten up the golden reins, 

And paces leisurely down amber plains 

His snorting four. Now when his chariot last 

Its beams against the zodiac-lion cast. 

There blossom'd suddenly a magic bed 

Of sacred ditamy, and poppies red : 

At which I wonder'd greatly, knowing well 

That but one night had wrought this flowery spell; 

And, sitting down close by, began to muse 

What it might mean. Perhaps, thought I, Morpheus, 

In passing here, his owlet pinions shook ; 

Or, it may be, ere matron Night uptook 

Her ebon urn, young Mercury, by stealth. 

Had dipt his rod in it : such garland wealth 

Came not by common growth. Thus on I thought, 

Until my head was dizzy and distraught. 

Moreover, through the dancing poppies stole 

A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul; 

And shaping visions all about my sight 

Of colors, wings, and bursts of spangly light ; 

The which became more strange, and strange, and 

dim. 
And then were gulf'd in a tumultuous swim: 
And then I fell asleep. Ah, can I tell 
The enchantment that afterwards befell ? 
Yet it was but a dream : yet such a dream 
That never tongue, although it overteem 
With mellow utterance, like a cavern spring, 
Could figure out and to conception bring 
All I beheld and felt. Methought I lay 
Watching the zenith, where the milky way 
Among the stars in virgin splendor pours ; 
And travelling my eye, until the doors 
Of heaven appear'd to open for my flight, 
1 became loih and fearful to alight 
From such high soaring by a downward glance : 
So kept me stedfast in that airy trance, 
Spreading imaginary pinions wide. 
When, presently, the stars began to glide, 
And faint away, before my eager view : 
At which I sigh'd that I could not pursue. 
And dropt my vision to the horizon's verge ; 
And lo ! from opening clouds, I saw emerge 
The lovelie.st moon, that ever silver'd o'er 
A shell for Neptune's goblet ; she did soar 
So passionately bright, my dazzled soul 
Commingling with her argent spheres did roll 
Through clear and cloudy, even when she went 
At last into a dark and vapory tent — 
Whereat, methought, the lidless-eyed train 
Of planets all were in the blue again. 
To commune with those orbs, once more I raised 
My sight right upward : but it was quite dazed 
By a bright something, sailing down apace. 
Making me quickly veil my eyes and face : 
Again I look'd, and, O ye deities, 
Who from Olympus watch our destinies ! 
Whence that completed form of all completeness ? 
Whence came that high perfection of all sweetness ? 



Speak, stubborn earth, and tell me where, O where 

Hast thou a symbol of her golden hair? 

Nor oat-sheaves drooping in the western sun , 

Not — thy soft hand, fair sister! let me shun 

Such follying before thee — yet she had, 

Indeed, locks bright enough ha make me mad ; 

And they were simply gordian'd up and braided, 

Leaving, in naked comeliness, unshaded. 

Her pearl round ears, white neck, and orbed brow , 

The which were blended in, 1 know not how. 

With such a paradise of lips and eyes. 

Blush-tinted cheeks, half smiles, and faintest sighs, 

That, when I think thereon, my spirit clings 

And plays about its fancy, till the stings 

Of human ^neighborhood envenom all. 

Unto what awful power shall I call ? 

To what high fane ? — Ah ! see her hovering feel 

More bluely vein'd, more soft, more whitely sweet 

Than those of sea-born Venus, when she rose 

From out her cradle shell. The wind out-blows 

Her scarf into a fluttering pavilion ; 

'Tis blue, and over-spangled with a million 

Of little eyes, as though thou wert to shed, 

Over the darkest, lushest bluebell bed, 

Handfuls of daisies." — " Endymion,' how strange! 

Dream within dream ! " — " She took an airy range, 

And then, towards me, like a very maid. 

Came blushing, waning, willing, and afraid. 

And press'd me by the hand : Ah ! 'I was too much " 

Methought I fainted at the charmed touch. 

Yet held my recollection, even as one 

Who dives three fathoms where the waters run 

Gurgling in beds of coral : for anon, 

I felt upmounted in that region 

Where falling stars dart their artillery forth. 

And eagles struggle with the bufl«ting north 

That balances the heavy meteor-stone ; — 

Felt too, I was not fearful, nor alone, 

But lapp'd and lull'd along the dangerous sky. 

Soon, as it seem'd, we left our journeying high. 

And straightway into frightful eddies swoop'd ; 

Such as aye muster where gray time has scoop'd 

Huge dens and caverns in a mountain's side : 

There hollow sounds aroused him, and I sigh'd 

To faint once more by looking on my bliss — 

I was distracted ; madly did I kiss 

The wooing arms which held me, and did give 

My eyes at once to death : but 'twas to live. 

To take in draughts of life from the gold fount 

Of kind and passionate looks ; to count, and count 

The moments, by some greedy help that seem'd 

A second self, that each might be redeem'd 

And plunder'd of its load ol blessedness. 

Ah, desperate mortal! I ev'n dared to press 

Her very cheek against my crowned lip, 

And, at that moment, felt my body dip 

Into a warmer air : a moment more. 

Our feet were soft in flowers. There was store 

Of newest joys upon that alp. Sometimes 

A scent of violets, and blossoming limes, 

Loiter'd around us ; then of honey cells. 

Made delicate from all white-flower bells ; 

And once, above the edges of our nest. 

An arch face peep'd, — an Oread as I guess'd. 

" Why did I dream that sleep o'erpower'd me 
In roidst of all this heaven ? Why not see. 
538 



ENDYMION. 



Far off, the shadows of his pinions dark, 

And stare them from me ? But no, like a spark 

That needs must die, although its little beam 

Reflects upon a diamond, my sweet dream 

Fell into nothing — into stupid sleep. 

And so it was, until a gentle creep, 

A careful moving caught my waiving ears, 

And up I started : Ah I my sighs, my tears, 

My clenched hands ; — for lo ! the poppies himg 

Dew-dabbled on their stalks, the ouzel sung 

A heavy ditty, and the sullen day 

Had chidden herald Hesperus away, 

With leaden looks : the solitary breeze 

Bluster'd, and slept, and its wild self did tease 

With wayward melancholy ; and I thought, 

Mark me, Peona ! that sometimes it brought 

Faint fare-lhee-wells, and sigh-shrilled adieus I — 

Away I wander'd — all the pleasant hues 

Of heaven and earth had faded : deepest shades 

Were deepest dungeons ; heaths and sunny glades 

Were full of pestilent light ; our taintless rills 

Seem'd sooty, and o'er-spread with upturn'd gills 

Of dying fish ; the vermeil rose had blown 

In frightful scarlet, and its tliorns out-grown 

Like spiked aloe. If an innocent bird 

Before my heedless footsteps stirr'd, and slirr'd 

In little journeys, I beheld in it 

A disguised demon, missioned to knit 

My soul with under darkness ; to entice 

My stumblings down some monstrous precipice : 

Therefore I eager follovv'd, and did curse 

The disappointment. Time, that aged nurse, 

Rock'd me to patience. Now, thank gentle heaven ! 

These things, witli all their comfortings, are given 

To my down-sunken hours, and with thee, 

Sweet sister, help to stem the ebbing sea 

Of weary life." 



Thus ended he, and both 
Sat silent : for the maid was very loth 
To answer ; feeling well that breathed words 
Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords 
Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps 
Of grasshoppers against the sun. She weeps, 
And wonders ; struggles to devise some blame ; 
To put on such a look as would say, Shame 
On this poor UTohness I but, for all her strife, 
She could as soon have crush 'd away the life 
From a sick dove At length, to break the pause. 
She said with trembling chance : " Is this the cause ? 
This all ? Yet it is strange, and sad, alas ! 
That one «ho through this middle earth should pass 
Most like a sojourning demi-god, and leave 
His name uyion the harp-string, should achieve 
No higher bard than simple maidenhood, 
Singing alone, and fearfully, — how the blood 
Left his young cheek ; and how he used to stray 
He knew not where; and how he would say, »wy, 
If any said 'twas love : and yet 'twas love ; 
What could it be but love >. How a ring-dove 
Let fall a sprig of yew-tree in his path ; 
And how he died : and then, that love doth scathe. 
The gentle heart, as northern blasts do roses ; 
And then the ballad of his sad life closes 
With sighs, and an alas I — Endymion I 
Be rather in the trumpet's mouth, — anon 
30* 



Among the winds at large — that all may hearken I 

Although, before the crystal heavens darken, 

I watch and dote upon the silver lakes 

Pictured in western cloudiness, that takes 

The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands. 

Islands, and creeks, and amber-fretted strands 

With horses prancing o'er them, palaces 

And towers of amethyst, — would I so tease 

My pleasant days, because I could not mount 

Into those regions ? The Morphean fount 

Of that fine element that visions, dreams. 

And fitful whims of sleep are made of, streams 

Into its airy channels with so subtle. 

So thin a breathing, that the spider's shuttle. 

Circled a million times within the space 

Of a swallow's nest-door, could delay a trace, 

A tinting of its quality : how light 

Must dreams themselves be ; seeing they 're more 

slight 
Than the mere nothing that engenders them ! 
Tlien wherefore sully the intrusted gem 
Of high and noble life with tliouglils so sick ? 
Why pierce high-fronted honor to the quick 
For nothing but a dream >." Hereat tlie youth 
Look'd up: a conflicting of shame and ruih 
Was in his plaited brow : yet, his eyelids 
Widen'd a little, as when Zephyr bids 
A little breeze to creep between the fans 
Of carele.ss butterflies : amid his pains 
He seem'd to taste a drop of manna-dew. 
Full palatable ; and a color grew 
Upon his cheek, wliile thus he lifeful spake. 

" Poena ! ever have I long'd to slake 
My thirst for the world's praises : nothing base. 
No merely slumberous phantasm, could unlace 
The stubtorn canvas for my voj-age prepared — 
Though now 'tis tatter'd ; leaving my bark bared 
And sullenly drifting: yet my higher hope 
Is of too wide, loo rainbow-large a scope, 
To fret at myriads of earthly wrecks. 
Wherein lies happiness ? In that which becks 
Our ready minds to fellowship divine, 
A fellowsliip with essence ; till we shine. 
Full alchemized, and free of space. Behold 
The clear religion of heaven ! Fold 
A rose-leaf round thy finger's taperness. 
And soothe thy lips : hist ! when the airy stress 
Of music's kiss impregnates the free winds. 
And with a sympathetic touch unbinds 
F.olian magic from their lucid wombs : 
Then old songs waken from euclouded tomljs ; 
Old ditties sigh aliove their father's grave ; 
Ghosts of melodious prophecyings rave 
Round every spot where trod Apollo's foot; 
Bronze clarions awake, and faintly bruit. 
Where long ago a giant battle was ; 
And, from the turf, a lullaby dolh pass 
In every place where infant Orpheus slept. 
Feel we these things ! — that moment have we stepl 
Into a sort of oneness, and our state 
Is like a floating spirit's. But there are 
Richer entanglements, enlhralincnts far 
More self-destroying, leading, by degrees. 
To the chief intensity: the crown of these 
Is made of love and friendship, and sits high 
Ujwn the forehead of humanity. 

539 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



All its more ponderous and bulky worth 

Is friendship, whence there ever issues forth 

A steady splendor ; but at the tip-top, 

There hangs by unseen film, an orbed drop 

Of light, and that is love : its influence 

Thrown in our eyes, genders a novel sense, 

At which we start and fret ; till in the end, 

Melting into its radiance, we blend, 

Mingle, and so become a part of it, — 

]\'or with aught else can our souls interknit 

So wingedly : when we combine therewith, 

Life's self is nourish'd by its proper pith. 

And we ai'e nurtured like a pelican brood. 

Aye, so delicious is the unsating food. 

That men, who might have tower'd in the van 

Of all the congregated world, to fan 

And winnow from the coming step of time 

All chaff of custom, wipe away all slime 

Left by men-slugs and human serpentry. 

Have been content to let occasion die, 

Whilst they did sleep in love's elysium. 

And, truly, I would rather be struck dumb, 

Tlmn speak against this ardent listlessness : 

For I have ever thought that it might bless 

The world with benefits unknowingly ; 

As does the nightingale, up-perched high. 

And cloister'd among cool and bunched leaves — 

She sings but to her love, nor e'er conceives 

How tiptoe Night holds back her dark-gray hood. 

Just so may love, although 'tis understood 

The mere commingling of passionate breath, 

Produce more than our searching witnesseth : 

What I know not : but who, of men, can tell 

That flowers would bloom, or that green fruits would 

swell 
To melting pulp, that fish would have bright mail, 
The earth its dower of river, wood, and vale. 
The meadows runnels, runnels pebble-stones, 
The seed its harvest, or the lute its tones. 
Tones ravishment, or ravishment its sweet. 
If human souls did never kiss and greet? 

" Now, if this earthly love has power to make 
Men's being mortal, immortal ; to shake 
Ambition from their memories, and brim 
Their measure of content ; what merest whim. 
Seems all this poor endeavor after fame. 
To one, who keeps v^-ilhin his stcdfast aim 
A love immortal, an immortal too. 
Look not so wilder'd ; for these things are true. 
And never can be born of atomies 
That buzz about our slumbers, like brain-flies. 
Leaving us fancy-sick. No, no, I'm sure, 
My restless spirit never could endure 
To brood so long upon one luxury. 
Unless it did, thougli fearfully, espy 
A hope beyond the sliadow of a dream. 
My sayings will the less obscured seem 
When I have told thee how my waking sight 
Has made me scruple whether that same night 
Was pass'd in dreaming. Hearken, sweet Peona! 
Beyond the matron-temple of Lalona, 
Which we should see out for these darkening boughs. 
Lies a deep hollow, from whose ragged brows 
Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart. 
And meet so nearly, that with wings outraught, 



And spreaded tail, a vulture could not glide 
Past them, but he must brush on every side 
Some moulder'd steps lead into this cool cell. 
Far as the slabbed margin of a well, 
Whose patient level peeps its crystal eye 
Right upward, through the bushes, to the sky. 
Oft have I brought thee flowers, on their stalks set 
Like vestal primroses, but dark velvet 
Edges them round, and they have golden pits : 
'Twas there I got them, from the gaps and slits 
In a mossy stone, that sometimes was my seat, 
When all above was faint with midday heat. 
And there in strife no burning thoughts to heed, 
I'd bubble up the water through a reed ; 
So reaching back to boyhood : make me ships 
Of moulted feathers, touchwood, alder chips, 
With leaves stuck in them ; and the Neptune be 
Of their petty ocean. Oftener, heavily, 
When lovelorn hours had left me less a child, 
I sat contemplating the figures wild 
Of o'er-head clouds melting the mirror through. 
Upon a day, while thus I watch'd, by flew 
A cloudy Cupid, with his bow and quiver; 
So plainly character'd, no breeze would shivo" 
The happy chance : so happy, I was fain 
To follow it upon the open plain. 
And, therefore, was just going; when, behold! 
A wonder, fair as any I have told — 
The same bright face I tasted in my sleep, 
Smiling in the clear well. My heart did leap 
Through the cool depth. — It moved as if to flee — 
I started up, when lo ! refreshfully. 
There came upon my face, in plenteous showers. 
Dew-drops, and dewy buds, and leaves, and flowers 
Wrapping all objects from my smolher'd sight, 
Bathing my spirit in a new delight. 
Aye, such a breathless honey-feel of bliss 
Alone preserved me from the drear abyss 
Of death, for the fiiir form had gone again. 
Pleasure is oft a visitant ; but pain 
Clings cruelly to us, like the gnawing sloth, 
On the deer's tender haunches : late, and loth, 
'Tis scared away by slow-returning pleasure. 
How sickening, how dark the dreadful leisure 
Of weary days, made deeper exquisite 
By a fijreknovvledge of unslumbrous night! 
Like sorrow came upon me, heavier still, 
Than when I wander'd from the poppy-hill : 
And a whole age of lingering moments crept 
Sluggishly by, ere more contentment swept 
Away at once the deadly yellow spleen. 
Yes, thrice have I this fair enchanlment seen; 
Once more been tortured with renewed life. 
When last the wintry gusts gave over strife 
With the conquering sun of spring, and left the skies 
Warm and serene, but yet widi moisten'd eyes 
In pity of the shatter'd infant buds, — 
That time thou didst adorn, with amber studs, 
My hunting-cap, because I laugh'd and smiled. 
Chatted with thee, and many days exiled 
All torment from my breast; — 'twas even then. 
Straying about, yet, coop'd up in the den 
Of helpless discontent, — hurling my lance 
From place to place, and following at chance. 
At last, by hap, through some young trees it struckt 
And, plashing among bedded pebbles, stuck 
540 



ENDYMION. 



In the middle of a brook, — whose silver ramble 

Down twenty little falls, through reeds and bramble 

Tracing along, it brought me to a cave, 

Whence it ran brightly forth, and white did lave 

The nether sides of mossy stones and rock, — 

'Mong which it gurgled blithe adieus, to mock 

lis own sweet grief at parting. Overhead, 

Hung a lush screen of drooping weeds, and spread 

Thick, as to curtain up some wood-nymph's home. 

'Ah! impious mortal, whitlier do I roam?' 

Said I, lo vv- voiced : 'Ah, whither! 'Tis the grot 

Of Proserpine, when Hell, obscure and hot, 

Doth her resign: and where her tender hands 

She dabbles, on the cool and sluicy sands : 

Or 'tis the cell of Echo, where she sits. 

And babbles thorough silence, till her wits 

Are gone in tender madne-ss, and anon. 

Faints into sleep, with many a dying tone 

Of sadness. O that she would take my vows. 

And breathe them sighingly among the boughs, 

To sue her gentle ears for whose lair head, 

Daily, I pluck sweet flowerets from their bed. 

And weave them dyingly — send honey-whispers 

Round every leaf that all those gentle lispers 

May sigh my love unto her pitying ! 

O charitable echo ! hear, and sing 

This ditty to her! — tell her' — so I stay'd 

My foolish tongue, and listening, half afraid, 

Stood stupefied with my own empty folly. 

And blushing for the freaks of melanclioly. 

Salt tears were coming, when I heard my name 

Most fondly lipp'd, and then these accents came : 

' Endymion ! the cave is secreter 

Tlian the isle of Delos. Echo hence shall stir 

Ko sighs but sigh-warm kisses, or light noise 

Of thy combing hand, the while it travelling cloys 

And tremljles through my labyrinthine hair.' 

At that oppress'd, I hurried in. — Ah! where 

Are those swift moments ? Whither are they fled ? 

I'll smile no more, Peona; nor will wed 

Sorrow', the way to death ; but patiently 

liear up against it : so farewell, sad sigh ; 

And come instead demurest medilation, 

To occupy me wholly, and to fashion 

My pilgrimage for the world's dusky brink. 

No more will I count over, link by link. 

My chain of grief: no longer strive to find 

A half-ibrgetfulness in mountain wind 

Blustering about my ears : ay, ihou shall see, 

Dearest of sisters, wiiat my life shall be; 

What a calm round of hours shall make my days. 

There is a paly flame of hope that plays 

Where'er I look : but yet, I'll say 'tis naught — 

And here I bid it die. Have not I caught, 

Already, a more healthy countenance ? 

By this the sun is setting ; we may chance 

Meet some of our near-d sellers with my car." 

This said, he rose, faint-smiling like a star 
Tnrough autinnn mists, and took Peona's hand : 
T'ley f.iopt into the boat, and launch'd from land. 



BOOK II. 

O SOVEREIGN power of love ! O grief! O balm ! 

All records, saving thine, come cool, and calm. 

And shadowy, through the mist of passed years : 

For others, good or bad, hatred and tears 

Have become indolent ; but touching Iliine, 

One sigh doth echo, one poor sob doth pine. 

One kiss brings honey-dew from buried days. 

The woes of Troy, towers smothering o'er their blaze 

StifT-holdcn shields, far-piercing spears, keen blades, 

Struggling, and blood, and shriek.s — all dimly fades 

Into some backward corner of the brain ; 

Yet, in our very souls, we leel amain 

The close of Troilus and Cressid sweet. 

Hence, pageant history! hence, gilded cheat! 

Swart planet in the universe of deeds ! 

Wide sea, that one continuous murmur breeds 

Along the pebbled shore of memory ! 

Many old rotten-timber'd boats tlicre be 

Upon thy vaporous bosom, magnified 

To goodly vessels; many a sail of pride. 

And golden-kecl'd, is left uidaunch'd and dry. 

But wherefore this? What care, though owl did fly 

About the great Athenian admiral's mast ? 

What care, though striding Alexander past 

The Indus with his Macedonian numbers? 

Though old Ulysses tortured from his slumbers 

The glutted Cyclops, what care ? — Juliet leaning 

Amid her window-flowers, — sighing, — weaning 

Tenderly her fancy from its maiden snow, 

Doth more avail than these : the silver flow 

Of Hero's tears, the swoon of Imogen, 

Fair Pastorella in the bandit's den. 

Are things to brood on with more ardency 

Than the death-day of empires. Fearfully 

Must such conviction come upon his head. 

Who, thus far, discontent, has dared to tread, 

Without one nmse's smile, or kind behest, 

The path of love and poesy. But rest. 

In chafing restlessness, is yet more drear 

Than to be crush'd, in striving to uprear 

Love's standard on the battlements of song. 

So once more days and nights aid me along, 

Like legion'd soldiers. 

Brain-sick shepherd-prince 
What promise hast thou faitiiful guarded since 
The day of sacrifice ? Or, have new sorrows 
Come with the constant dawn upon tiiy morrows? 
Alas! 'tis his old grief. For many days. 
Has he been vi'andering in uncertain ways : 
Through wilderness, and woods of mossed oaks ; 
Counting his woe-worn minutes, by the strokes 
Of the lone wood-cutter ; and listening still, 
Hour after hour, to each lush-leaved rill. 
Now he is sitting by a shady spring. 
And elbow-deep with feverous fingering 
Steins the nplnirsiing cold : a wild rose-tree 
Pavilions him in bloom, and he doih see 
A bud which snares his fancy: lo! b\it now 
He plucks it, dips its slalk in the water: how 
It swells, it buds, it flowers beneath his sight 
And, in the middle, there is softly pight 
541 



10 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A golden butterfly ; upon whose wings 

There must be surely character'd strange things, 

For with wide eye he wonders, and smiles oft. 

Lightly this little herald flew aloft, 
FoUovv'd by glad Endymion's clasped hands : 
Onward it flies. From languor's sullen bands 
His limbs are loosed, and eager, on he hies 
Dazzled to trace it in the sunny skies. 
It seem'd he flew, the way so easy was ; 
And like a new-born spirit did he pass 
Through the green evening quiet in the sun. 
O'er many a heatii, through many a woodland dun. 
Through buried paths, where sleepy twilight dreams 
The summer-time away. One track unseams 
A wooded cleft, and, far away, the blue 
Of ocean fades upon him ; then, anew, 
He sinks adown a solitary glen, 
Where there was never sound of mortal men. 
Saving, perhaps, some snow-like cadences 
Melting to silence, when upon the breeze 
Some holy bark let forth an anthem sweet, 
To cheer itself to Delphi. Still his feet 
Went swift beneath the merry-winged guide, 
Until it reach'd a splashing fountain's side 
That, near a cavern's mouth, for ever pour'd 
Unto the temperate air: then high it soar'd, 
And, downward, suddenly began to dip, 
As if, athirst with so much toil, 'twould sip 
The crystal spout-head : so it did, with touch 
Most delicate, as though afraid to smutch 
Even with mealy gold the waters clear. 
But, at that very touch, to disappear 
So fairy-(]uick, was strange ! Bewildered, 
Endymion sought around, and shook each bed 
Of covert flowers in vain ; and then he flung 
Himself along the grass. What gentle tongue, 
What whisperer disturb'd his gloomy rest ? 
It was a nymph uprisen to the breast 
In the fountain's pebbly margin, and she stood 
'Mong lilies, like the youngest of the brood. 
To him her dripping hand she sofily kist. 
And anxiously began to plait and twist 
Her ringlets round iier fingers, saying : " Youth ! 
Too long, alas, hast thou starved on the ruth. 
The bitterness of love : too long indeed. 
Seeing thou art so gentle. Could I weed 
Thy soul of care, by Heavens, I would ofl^er 
All the bright riches of my crystal coffer 
To Amphilrite; all my clear-eyed fish, 
Golden, or rainbow-sided, or purplish, 
Vermilion-tail'd, or finn'd with silvery gauze ; 
Yea, or iny veined pebble-floor, tiiat draws 
A virgin light to the deep ; my grotto-sands 
Tawny and gold, oozed slowly from far lands 
By my diligent springs ; my level lilies, shells, 
My charming rod, my potent river spells; 
Yes, every thing, even to the pearly cup 
Meander gave me, — for I bubbled up 
To fainting creatures in a desert wild. 
But woe is me, I am but as a child 
To gladden thee ; and all I dare to say. 
Is, that I pity thee ; that on this day 
I 've been thy guide ,• that thou must wander far 
In other regions, past the scanty bar 



To mortal steps, before thou canst be ta'en 
From every wasting sigh, from every pain, 
Into the gentle bosom of thy love. 
Why it is thus, one knows in Heaven above : 
But, a poor Naiad, I guess not. Farewell ! 
I have a ditty for my hollow cell." 



Ilereat, she vanish'd from Endymion's gaze, 
Who brooded o'er the water in amaze : 
The dashing fount pour'd on, and where its pool 
Lay, half asleep, in grass and rushes cool. 
Quick waterflies and gnats were sporting still. 
And fish were dimpling, as if good nor ill 
Had fallen out that hour. The wanderer. 
Holding his forehead, to keep off the burr 
Of smothering fancies, palieiuly sat down ; 
And, while beneath the evening's sleepy frown 
Glow-worms began lo trim their starry lamps, 
Thus breathed he to himself: " Whoso encamps 
To take a fancied city of delight, 

what a wretch is he ! and when 'tis his. 
After long toil and travelling, to miss 

The kernel of his hopes, how more than vile! 
Yet, for him there's refreshment even in toil : 
Another city doth he set about. 
Free from the smallest pebble-head of doubt 
Tliat he will seize on trickling honeycombs ; 
Alas, he finds them dry; and then he foams, 
And onward to another city speeds. 
But this is human life : the war, the deeds. 
The disappointment, the anxiety. 
Imagination's struggles, far and nigh. 
All human ; bearing in themselves this good, 
That they arc still the air, llie subtle food. 
To make us feel existence, and to show 
How quiet death is. Where soil is men grow. 
Whether to weeds or flowers ; but for me. 
There is no depth to st.-ike in: I can see 
Naught earthly v\orlh my compassing; so stand 
Upon a misty, jutting head of land — 
Alone? No, no; and by the Orphean lute, 
When mad Eurydice is listening to 't, 

1 'd rather stand upon this misty peak, 
With not a thing to sigh for, or to seek. 
But the soft shadow' of my thrice-seen love. 
Than be — I care not what. O meekest dove 

Of Heaven ! O Cynthia, ten-limes brigiil and fair ! 

From thy blue throne, now filling all the air. 

Glance but one little beam of temper'd light 

Into my bosom, that the dreadful might 

And tyranny of love be somewhat scared ! 

Yet do not so, sweet queen; one torment spared. 

Would give a pang to jealous mi.^ery. 

Worse than the torment's self: but rather tie 

Large wings upon my shoulders, and point out 

My love's far dwelling. Though the playful rout 

Of Cupids shun thee, too divine art thou. 

Too keen in beauty, for thy silver prow 

Not to have dipp'd in love's most gentle stream 

O be propitious, nor severely deem 

My madness impious ; for, by all the stars 

That tend thy bidding, I do tliink llie bars 

That kept my spirit in are burst — that I 

Am saihng with thee through the dizzy sky! 



ENDYMION. 



11 



How beautiful thou art! The world how deep! 
How tremulous-dazzlingly the wheels sweep 
Around their axle! Then these gleaming reins, 
How lithe ! When this thy chariot attains 
Its airy goal, hajjly some bower veils 
Those twilight eyes ? Those eyes ! — my spirit fails — 
Dear goddess, help ! or the wide-gaping air 
Will gulf nie — help!" — At this, with madden'd stare. 
And lifted hands, and trembling lips, he stood ; 
Like old Deucalion mountain'd o'er the flood, 
Or blind Orion hungry for the morn. 
And, but from the deep cavern there was borne 
A voice, he had been froze to senseless stone ; 
Nor sigh of his, nor plaint, nor passion'd moan 
Had more been heard. Thus swell'd it forth : " De- 
scend, 
Young mountaineer ! descend where alleys bend 
Into the sparry hollows of the world ! 
Oft hast thou seen bolts of the thunder hurl'd 
' As from thy threshold ; day by day hast been 
A little lower tlian the chilly sheen 
Of icy pinnacles, and dipp'dst thine arms 
Into the deadening ether that still charms 
Their marble being : now, as deep profound 
As those are high, descend ! He ne'er is crown'd 
With immortality, who fears to follow 
Where airy voices lead : so through the hollow, 
The silent mysteries of earth, descend!" 

He heard but the last words, nor could contend 
One moment in reflection : for he fled 
Into the fearful deep, to hide his head 
From the clear moon, the trees, and coming madness. 

'T was far too strange, and wonderful for sadness ; 
Sharpening, by degrees, his appetite 
To dive into the deepest. Dark, nor light, 
The region ; nor bright, nor sombre wholly, 
But mingled up ; a gleaming melancholy ; 
A dusky empire and its diadems ; 
One faint eternal eventide of gems. 
Ay, millions sparkled on a vein of gold, 
Along whose track the prince quick footsteps told. 
With all its lines abrupt and angular: 
Out-shooling sometimes, like a nieleor-star. 
Through a vast antre ; then the metal woof. 
Like Vulcan's rainbow, with some monstrous roof 
Curves hugely : now, far in the deep abyss. 
It seems an angry lightning, and doth hiss 
Fancy into belief: anon it leads 
Through winding passages, where sameness breeds 
Vexing conceptions of some sudden change ; 
Whether to silver grots, or giant range 
Of sapphire columns, or fantastic bridge 
Athwart a flood of crj-slal. On a ridge 
Now farelh he, that o'er the vast beneath 
Towers like an ocean-clifT and whence he seeth 
A hundred waterfalls, whose voices conte 
But as tlio murmuring surge. Chilly and numb 
His bosom grew, when first he, far away. 
Descried an orbed diamond, set to fray 
Old Darkness from his throne : 't was like the sun 
Uprisen o'er chaos : and with such a stun 
Came the amazement, that, absorb'd in it, 
He saw not fiercer wonders — past the wit 
Of any spirit to tell, but one of those 
Who, when this planet's sphering lime doth close, 
31 



Will be its high remembrancers : who they ? 

The mighty ones who have made eternal day 

For Greece and England. While astonishment 

With deep-drawn sighs was quieting, he went 

Into a marble gallery, passing through 

A mimic temple, so complete and true 

In sacred custom, that he well-nigh fear'd 

To search it inwards ; whence far off appear'd. 

Through a long pillar'd vista, a fan shrine, 

And, just beyond, on light tiptoe divine, 

A quiver'd Dian. Stepping awfully, 

The youth approach'd ; oft turning his veil'd eye 

Down sidelong aisles, and into niches old : 

And, when more near against the marble cold 

He had touch'd his forehead, he began to thread 

All courts and passages, where silence dead. 

Roused by his whispering footsteps, murmur'd faint : 

And long he traversed to and fro, to acquaint 

Himself with every mystery, and awe ; 

Till, weary, he sat down before the maw 

Of a wide outlet, fathomless and dim, ' 

To wild uncertainly and shadows grim. 

There, when new wonders ceased to float Tjefor.e, 

And thoughts of self came on, how crude and sore 

The journey homeward to habitual self! 

A mad-pursuing of the fog-born elf. 

Whose flitting lantern, through rude nettle-biior. 

Cheats us into a swamp, into a fire. 

Into the bosom of a hated thing. 



What misery most drowningly doth sing 
In lone Endymion's ear, now he has caught 
The goal of consciousness ? Ah, 't is the thought 
The deadly feel of solitude: for, lo ! 
He cannot see the heavens, nor the flow 
Of rivers, nor hill-flowers running wild 
In pink and purple chequei, nor up-piled. 
The cloudy rack slow journeying in the west. 
Like herded elephants ; nor felt, nor prest 
Cool grass, nor tasted the fresh slumberous air ; 
But far from such companionship to wear 
An unknown time, surcharged with grief, away. 
Was now his lot. And must he patient stay, 
Tracing fantastic figures with Ids spear? 
"No!" exclaimed he, " Why should I tarry herel 
\o! loudly echoed times innumerable. 
At which he straightway started, and 'gan tell 
His paces back into the temple's chief; 
Warming and glowing strong in the belief 
Of help from Dian : so that when again 
He caught her airy form, thus did he plain. 
Moving more near the while. "O Haunter chaste 
Of river sides, and woods, and heathy waste. 
Where with thy silver bow and arrows keen 
Art thou now forested ? O woodland Queen, 
What smoothest air thy smoolher forehead wooes ? 
Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos 
Of thy disparted nyuiphs >. Through what dark tree 
Glimmers thy crescent ? Wheresoc'cr it he, 
'Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste 
Freedom as none can taste it, nor dost waste 
Thy loveliness in dismal elements ; 
But, finding in our green earth sweet contents, 
There livest blissfully. Ah, if to thee 
It feels Elysian, how rich to me, 

543 



12 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



An exiled mortal, sounds its pleasant name! 
Within my breast there lives a choking flame — 
O let me cool it among the zephyr-boughs ; 
A homeward fever parches up my tongue — 
O let me slake it at the running springs! 
Upon my ear a noisy nothing rings — 
O let me once more hear the linnet's note ! 
Before mine eyes thick fdms and shadows float — 
O let me 'noint them with the heaven's light ! 
Dost thou now lave thy feet and ankles white ? 
O think how sweet to me the freshening sluice ! 
Dost thou now please thy thirst with berry-juice ? 
O think how this dry palate would rejoice ! 
If in soft slumber thou dost hear my voice, 
O think how I should love a bed of flowers ! — 
Young goddess ! let me see my native bowers ! 
Deliver me from this rapacious deep ! " 

Thus ending loudly, as he would o'erleap 
His destiny, alert he stood : but when 
Obstinate silence came heavily again. 
Feeling about for its old couch of space 
And airy cradle, lowly bow'd his face. 
Desponding, o'er the marble floor's cold thrill. 
But 't was not long ; for, sweeter than the rill 
To its old channel, or a swollen tide 
To margin sallows, were the leaves he spied, 
And flowers, and wreaths, and ready myrtle crowns 
Up peeping through the slab : refreshment drowns 
Itself, and strives its own delights to hide — 
]Vor in one spot alone ; the floral pride 
In a long whispering birth enchanted grew 
Before his footsteps ; as when heaved anew 
Old ocean rolls a lengthen'd wave to the shore, 
Down whose green back the shortlived foam, all hoar, 
Bursts gradual, with a wayward indolence. 

Increasing still in heart, and pleasant sense, 
Upon his fairy journey on he hastes ; 
So anxious for the end, he scarcely wastes 
One moment with his hands among the sweets : 
Onward he goes — he stops — his bosom beats 
As plainly in his ear, as the faint charm 
Of which the throbs were born. This still alarm, 
This sleepy music, forced him walk tiptoe : 
For it came more softly than the east could blow 
Arion's magic to the Atlantic isles ; 
Or than the west, made jealous by the smiles 
Of throned Apollo, could breathe back the lyre 
To seas Ionian and Tyrian. 

O did he ever live, that lonely man. 
Who loved — and music slew not? 'Tis the pest 
Of love, that fairest joys give most unrest; 
That things of delicate and tenderest worth 
Are swallow'd all, and made a seared dearth, 
By one consuming flame : it doth immerse 
And suflfocate true blessings in a curse. 
Half-happy, by comparison of bliss, 
Is miserable. 'Twas even so with this 
Dew-dropping melody, in the Carian's ear; 
First heaven, then hell, and then forgotten clear, 
Vanish'd in elemental passion. 

And down some swart abysm he had gone, 
Had not a heavenly guide benignant led 
To where thick myrtle branches, 'gainst his head 



Brushing, awaken'd : then the sounds again 
Went noiseless as a passing noontide rain 
Over a bower, where little space he stood ; 
For as the sunset peeps into a wood, 
So saw he panting light, and towards it went 
Through winding alleys ; and lo, wonderment 
Upon soft verdure saw, one here, one there 
Cupids a slumbering on their pinions fair. 



After a thousand mazes overgone. 
At last, with sudden step, he came upon 
A chamber, myrtle-wall'd, embovver'd high, 
Full of light, incense, tender minstrelsy. 
And more of beautiful and strange beside : 
For on a silken couch of rosy pride. 
In midst of all, there lay a sleeping youth 
Of fondest beauty ; fonder, in fair sooth. 
Than sighs could fathom, or contentment reach 
And coverlids gold-tinted like the peach. 
Or ripe October's faded mangolds. 
Fell sleek about him in a thousand folds — 
Not hiding up an Apollonian curve 
Of neck and shoulder, nor the tenling swerve 
Of knee fi-om knee, nor ankles pointing light ; 
But rather, giving them to the fill'd sight 
Ofliciously. Sidevvay his face reposed 
On one white arm, and tenderly unclosed. 
By tenderest pressure, a faint damask mouth 
To slumbery pout ; just as the morning south 
Disparts a dew-lipp'd rose. Above his head, 
Four lily stalks did their white honors wed 
To make a coronal ; and round him grew 
All tendrils green, of every bloom and hue, 
Together intertwined and tramcH'd fresh : 
The vine of glossy sprout ; the ivy mesh. 
Shading its Ethiop berries; and woodbine. 
Of velvet leaves and bugle-blooms divine ; 
Convolvulus in streaked vases flush ; 
The creeper, mellowing for an autumn blush ; 
And virgin's bovver, trailing airily ; 
With others of the sisterhood. Hard by. 
Stood serene Cupids watching silently. 
One, kneeling to a lyre, touched the strings, 
Muflling to death the pathos with his wings ; 
And, ever and anon, uprose to look 
At the youth's slumber; while another took 
A willow bough, distilling odorous dew. 
And shook it on his hair ; another flew 
In through the woven roof, and flutiering-wise 
Rain'd violets upon his sleeping eyes. 



i 



I 



At these enchantments, and yet many more. 
The breathless Latmian vvonder'd o'er and o'erj 
Until impatient in embarrassment, 
He forthright pass'd, and lightly treading went 
To that same fealher'd lyrist, who straightway. 
Smiling, thus whisper'd : " Though from upper day 
Thou art a wanderer, and thy presence here 
Might seem unholy, be of happy cheer! 
For 'tis the nicest touch of human honor. 
When some ethereal and higli-favoring donor 
Presents imniorlal bowers lo morlal sense ; 
As now 'tis done to thee, Endymion. Hence 
Was I in nowise startled. So recline 
Upon these living flowers. Here is wine, 
544 



ENDYMION. 



13 



Alive with sparkles — never, I aver, 
Since Ariadne was a vintager, 
So cool a purple : taste these juicy pears. 
Sent me by sad Vertumnus, when his fears 
Were high about Pomona : here is cream, 
Deepening to richness from a snowy gleam ; 
Sweeter tlian that nurse Amalthea skimm'd 
For the boy Jupiter : and here, undimm'd 
By any touch, a bunch of blooming plums 
Keady to melt between an infant's gums: 
And here is manna pick"d from Syrian trees, 
In starlight, by the three Hesperides. 
Feast on, and meanwhile I will let thee know 
Of all these things around us." lie did so. 
Still brooding o'er the cadence of his lyre ; 
And thus: "I need not any hearing tire 
By telling how the sea-born goddess pined 
For a mortal youth, and how she strove to bind 
Ilim all in all unto her doting self. 
Who would not be so prison'd ? but, fond elf, 
He was content to let her amorous plea 
l-'aint through his careless arms ; content to see 
An unseized heaven dying at his feet ; 
Content, O fool .' to make a cold retreat, 
When on the pleasant grass such love, lovelorn, 
Lay sorrowing ; when every tear was born 
Of diverse passion ; when her lips and eyes 
Were closed in sullen moisture, and quick sighs 
Came vex'd and pettish through her nostrils small. 
Hush! no exclaim — yet, justly mightst thou call 
Curses upon his head. — I was half glad. 
But my poor mistress went distract and mad. 
When the uoar tnsk'd him : so away she flew 
To Jove's high throne, and by her plainings drew 
Immortal tear-drops dow n the tlinnderer's beard ; 
Whereon, it was decreed he shoidd be rear'd 
Each summer-time to life. Lo ! this is he, 
That same Adonis, safe in the privacy 
Of this still region all his winter-sleep. 
Ay, sleep ; for when our love-sick queen did weep 
Over his waned corse, the tremulous shower 
Heal'd up the wound, and, with a balmy power, 
Medicined death to a lengthen'd drowsiness : 
The which she fdls with visions, and doth dress 
In all this quiet luxury; and hath set 
lis young immortals, without any let, 
I To watch his slumber through. 'Tis well-nigh pass'd. 
Even to a moment's filling up, and fast 
I She scuds with summer breezes, to pant through 
] The first long kiss, warm firstling, to renew 
Embower'd sports in Cytherea's isle. 
I_/)ok, how those winged listeners all this while 
Stand anxious: see! behold!" — This clamant word 
Uioke through the careful silence ; for they heard 
A rustling noise of leaves, and out there flutter'd 
Pigeons and doves : Adonis something mutter'd. 
The while one hand, that erst upon his thigh 
I Lay dormant, moved convulsed and gradually 
I Up to his forehead. Then there was a hum 
I Of sudden voices, echoing, " Come ! come ! 
• Arise ! awake ! Clear summer has forth walk'd 
Unto the clover-sward, and she has talk'd 
I Full soothingly to every nested finch : 
Rise, Cupids! or we'll give the bluebell pinch 
I To your dimpled arms. Once more sweet life begin!" 
At this, from every side they hurried in, 



Rubbing their sleepy eyes with lazy wrists, 

And doubling overhead their little fists 

In backward yawns. But all were soon alive : 

For as delicious wine doth, sparkling, dive 

In nectar'd clouds and curls through water fair. 

So from the arbor roof down svvell'd an air 

Odorous and enlivening ; making all 

To laugh, and play, and sing, and loudly call 

For their sweet queen: when lo! ihe wreathed gieen 

Disparted, and liir upward could be seen 

Blue heaven, and a silver car, air-torne. 

Whose silent wheels, fresh wet from clouds of mom. 

Spun off" a drizzling dew\ — which falling chill 

On soft Adonis' shoulders, made him still 

Nestle and turn uneasily about. 

Soon were the white doves plain, with ncclvs stretch'd 

out, 
And silken traces lighten'd in descent ; 
And soon, returning from love's banishmer\. 
Queen Venus leaning downward open-arm'd : 
Her shadow fell upon his breast, and charm'd 
A tumult to his heart, and a new life 
Into his eyes. Ah, miserable strife. 
But for her comforting! unhappy sight. 
But meeting her blue orbs ! Who, w ho can write 
Of these first minutes ? The unchariest muse 
To embracements warm as theirs makes coy exiuse. 

O it has ruffled every spirit there. 
Saving Love's self, who stands superb to share 
The general gladness : awfully he stands ; 
A sovereign quell is in his waving hands , 
No sight can bear the lightning of his bow ; 
His quiver is mysterious, none can know 
What themselves think of it ; from forth his eyes 
There darts strange light of varied hues and dyes : 
A scowl is sometimes on his brow, but who 
Look full upon it feel anon the blue 
Of his fair eyes run liquid through their souls. 
Endymion feels it, and no more controls 
The burning prayer within him; so, bent low, 
He had begun a plaining of his woe. 
But Venus, bending forward, said : " My child, 
Favor this gentle youth ; his days are wild 
With love — he — but alas ! too well I see 
Thou know'st the deepness of his miserj'. 
Ah, smile not so, my son : I tell thee true, 
Tiiat when through heavy hours I used to rue 
The endless sleep of this new-born Adon'. 
Tins stranger aye I pitied. For upon 
A dreary morning once I fled away 
Into the breezy clouds, to weep and pray 
For this my love : for vexing Mars had teased 
Me even to tears: thence, when a little eased. 
Down-looking, vacant, through a hazy wood. 
I saw this youth as he despairing stood : 
Those same dark curls blown vagrant in the wind ; 
Those same full fringed lids a constant blind 
Over his sullen eyes: 1 saw him throw 
Himself on wither'd leaves, even as though 
Death had come sudden ; for no jot he moved. 
Yet mutter'd wildly. I could hear he loved 
Some fair immortal, and that his embrace 
Had zoned her through the night. There is no trace 
Of this in heaven : I have mark'd each cheek, 
And find it is the vainest thing to seel; ; 
bib 



!4 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And that of all tilings 'tis kept secrctcst. 

Endymion ! one day thou wilt be blest : 

So still obey the guiding hand that fends 

Thee safely through these wonders for sweet ends. 

'Tis a concealment needful in extreme; 

And if I guess'd not so, the sunny beam 

Thou shouldst mount up to with me. Now adieu ! 

Here must we leave thee." — At these words up flew 

The impatient doves, up rose the floating ear. 

Up went the hum celestial. High afar 

The Latmian saw them minish into naught; 

And, when all were dear vanish'd, still he caught 

A vivid lightning from that dreadful bow. 

When all was darken'd, with yEtnean throe 

The earth closed — gave a solitary moan — 

And left him once again in twilight lone. 



He did not rave, he did not stare aghast. 
For all those visions were o'ergone, and past. 
And he in loneliness : he felt assured 
Of happy times, when all he had endured 
Would seem a feather to the mighty prize. 
So, with unusual gladness, on he hies 
Through caves, and palaces of mottled ore. 
Gold dome, and crystal wall, and turquoise floor. 
Black polish'd porticoes of awful shade, 
And, at the last, a diamond balustrade. 
Lea. ing afar past wild magnificence, 
Spiral through ruggedest loop-holes, and thence 
Stretching across a void, then guiding o'er 
Enormous chasms, where, all foam and roar, 
Streams subterranean tease their granite beds ; 
Then heighten'd just above the silvery heads 
Of a thousand fountains, so that he could dash 
The waters with his spear ; but at the splasli, 
Done heedlessly, those spouting columns rose 
Sudden a poplar's height, and 'gan to inclose 
His diamond path with fretwork streaming round 
Alive, and dazzling cool, and with a sound. 
Haply, like dolphin tumults, when sweet shells 
Welcome the float of Thetis. Long he dwells 
On this delight ; for, every minute's space, 
The streams with changed magic interlace : 
Sometimes like delicatest lattices, 
Cover'd with crystal vines; then v%'eeping trees, 
Moving about as in a gentle wind, 
Which, in a wink, to watery gauze refined, 
Poiir'd into shapes of curtain'd canopies. 
Spangled, and rich with liquid broideries • 
Of flowers, peacocks, swans, and naiads fair. 
Swifter than lightning went these wonders rare ; 
And then the water, into stubborn streams 
Collecting, mimick'd the wrought oaken beams, 
Pillars, and frieze, and high fantastic roof. 
Of those dusk places in times far aloof 
Cathedrals call'd. He bade a loth farewell 
To these founts Protean, passing gulf, and dell. 
And torrent, and ten thousand jutting shapes, 
Half-seen through deepest gloom, and grisly gapes, 
Blackening on every side, and overhead 
A vaulted dome like Heaven's, far bespread 
With starlight gems : aye, all so huge and strange, 
The solitary felt a hurried change 
Working within him into something dreary, — 
Ve.\'d like a morning eagle, lost, and weary. 



And purblind amid foggy raidniglit wolds. 
But he revives at once: for vilio beholds 
New sudden things, nor casts his mental slough ? 
Forth from a rugged arch, in the dusk below, 
Came mother Cybele ! alone — alone — 
In sombre chariot ; dark foldings thrown 
About her majesty, and front death-pale, 
With turrets crown'd. Four mailed lions hale 
The sluggish wheels ; solemn their toothed maws. 
Their surly eyes brow-hidden, heavy paws 
Uplifted drowsily, and nervy tails 
Cowering their lawny brushes. Silent sails 
This shadowy queen athwart, and faints away 
In another gloomy arch. 

Wherefore delay. 
Young traveller, in such a mournful place ? 
Art thou wayworn, or canst not further trace 
The diamond path? And does it indeed end 
Abrupt in middle air ? Yet earthward bend 
Thy forehead, and to Jupiter cloud-borne 
Call ardently ! He was indeed w ay worn ; 
Abrupt, in middle air, his way was lost ; 
To cloud-borne Jove he bowed, and there crost 
Towards him a large eagle, 't vvixt whose wings 
Without one impious word, himself he flings. 
Committed to tiie darkness and the gloom : 
Down, down, uncertain to what pleasant doom. 
Swift as a fathoming plummet down he fell 
Through imknovvn things ; till exhaled asphodel, 
And rose, with spicy fannings interbrealhed. 
Came swelling forth where little caves were wreathed 
So thick with leaves and mosses, that they seem'd 
Large honeycombs of green, and freshly teeiii'd 
With airs delicious. In the greenest nook 
The eagle landed him, and larewell took. 

It was a jasmine bower, all bestrewn 
With golden moss. His every sense had grown 
Ethereal for pleasure ; 'bove his head 
Flew a dehght half-graspable ; his tread 
Was Hesperean ; to his capable ears 
Silence was music from the holy spheres; 
A dewy luxury was in his eyes ; 
The little flowers felt his pleasant sighs 
And stirr'd them faintly. Verdant cave and cell 
He wander'd through, oft wondering at such svveK 
Of sudden exaltation : but, " Alas ! " 
Said he, " will all this gush of feeling pass 
Away in solitude ? And must they wane, 
Like melodies upon a sandy plain, 
Without an echo ? Then .shall I be left 
So sad, so melancholj', so bereft ! 
Yet still I feel immortal ! O my love. 
My breath of life, where art thou ? High above. 
Dancing before the morning gates of heaven ' 
Or keeping watch among those starry seven, 
Old Atlas' children ? Art a maid of the waters, 
One of shell-winding Triton's bright-hair'd daughters 
Or art, impossible ! a nymph of Dian's, 
Weaving a coronal of tender scions 
For very idleness ? Where'er thou art, 
Methinks it now is at my will to start 
Into thine arms ; to scare Aurora's train. 
And snatch thee from the morning ; o'er the main 
51G 



ENDYMION. 



15 



To scud like a wild bird, and take thee off 

From thy sea-foamy cradle; or to doff 

'J''hy shei)herd vest, and uoo thee 'mid fresh leaves. 

No, no, too eagerly my soul deceives 

Its powerless self: I know this cannot be. 

O let me then by some sweet dreaming flee 

To her entrancements : hither sleep awhile ! 

Hither most gentle sleep ! and soothing foil 

l-'or some few hours the coming solitude." 



Thus spake he, and that moment felt endued 
With power to dream deliciously ; so wound 
Through a dim passage, searching till he found 
The smoothest mossy bed and deepest, where 
He threw himself, and just into the air 
Stretching his indolent arms, he took, O bliss! 
A naked waist: "Fair Cupid, whence is this?" 
A well-known voice sigh'd, " Sweetest, here am I!" 
At which soft ravishment, with doting cry 
They trembled to each other. — Helicon ! 
O fountain'd hill ! Old Homer's Helicon ! 
That thou wouldst spout a little streamlet o'er 
These sorry pages ; then the verse would soar 
And sing above this gentle pair, like lark 
Over his nested young : but all is dark 
Around thine aged top, and thy clear fount 
Exhales in mists to Heaven. Ay, the count 
Of mighty Poets is made up ; the scroll 
Is folded iiy the Muses ; the bright roll 
Is in Apollo's hand : our dazed eyes 
Have seen a new tinge in the western skies : 
The world has done its duty. Yet, oh yet, 
Although the sun of poesy is set, 
These lovers did embrace, and we must weep 
That there is no old power left to steep 
A quill immortal in their joyous tears. 
Long time in silence did their anxious fears 
Question that thus it was; long time they lay 
Fondling and kissing every doubt away ; 
Long time ere soft caressing sobs began 
To mellow into words, and then there ran 
Two bubbling springs of talk from their sweet lips. 
" O known Unknown ! from whom my being sips 
Such darling essence, wherefore may I not 
Be ever in these arms? in this sweet spot 
Pillow my chin for ever ? ever press 
These toying hands and kiss their smooth excess ? 
Why not for ever and for ever feel 
That breath about my eyes? Ah, thou wilt steal 
Away from me again, indeed, indeed — 
Thou wilt be gone away, and wilt not heed 
My lonely madness. Speak, my kindest fair! 
Is — is it to be so ? No ! Who will dare 
To pluck thee from me ? And, of thine own will. 
Full well I feel thou wouldst not leave me. Still 
Let me entwine thee surer, surer — now 
How can we part ? Elysium ! who art thou ? 
Who, that thou canst not be for ever here, 
'Or lift me with thee to some starry sphere? 
Enchantress! tell me by this soft embrace, 
By the most soft complexion of thy face. 
Those lips, O slippery blisses ! twinkling eyes, 
And by these tenderest, milky sovereignties — 
These tenderest, and by the nectar-wine. 

The passion" " O loved Ida the divine ! 

40 



F.ndymion ! dearest ! Ah, unhappy me ! 

His soul will 'scape us — O felicity! 

How he does love me ! His poor temples beat 

To the very tune of love — how sweet, sweet, sweet! 

Revive, dear youth, or I shall faint and die; 

Revive, or these soft hours will hurry by 

In tranced dullness; speak, and let that spell 

Affright this lethargy! I cannot quell 

Its heavy pressure, and will press at least 

My lips to thine, thai they may richly feast 

Until we taste the life of love again. 

What! dost thou move? dost kiss? O bliss! O pain' 

I love thee, youth, more than I can conceive ; 

And so long absence from thee doth bereave 

My soul of any rest : yet must I hence : 

Yet, can I not to starry eminence 

Uplift thee; nor for very shame can own 

Myself to thee. Ah, dearest ! do not groan, 

Or thou wilt force me from this secrecy, 

And I must blush in heaven. O that I 

Had done it already! that the dreadful smiles 

At my lost brightness, my impassion'd wiles, 

Had waned from Olympus' solemn height. 

And from all serious Gods ; that our delight 

Was quite forgotten, save of us alone ! 

And wherefore so ashamed? 'Tis but to atone 

For endless pleasure, by some coward blushes : 

Yet must I be a coward ! Horror rushes 

Too palpable before me — the sad look 

Of Jove — Minerva's start — no bosom shook 

With awe of pifrity — no Cupid pinion 

In reverence veil'd — my cr3'stalline dominion 

Half lost, and all old hymns made nullity! 

But what is this to love ? Oh! I could fly 

With thee into the ken of heavenly powers, 

So thou wouldst thus, for many sequent hours, 

Press me so sweetly. Now I swear at once 

That I am wise, that Pallas is a dunce — 

Perhaps her love like mine is but unknowTi — 

Oh I I do think that I have been alone 

In chastity ! yes, Pallas has been sighing, 

Wliile every eve saw me my hair uptying 

With fingers cool as aspen leaves. Sweet love ! 

I was as vague as solitary dove. 

Nor knew that nests were built. Now a soft kiss — 

Ay, by that kiss, I vow an endless bliss. 

An immortality of passion's thine : 

Ere long I will exalt thee to the shine 

Of heaven ambrosial ; and we will shade 

Ourselves whole summers by a river glade ; 

And I will tell thee stories of the sky. 

And breathe thee whispers of its minstrelsy. 

My happy love will overwing all bounds! 

O let me melt into thee! let the sounds 

Of our close voices marry at their birth ; 

Let us entwine hoveringly ! — O dearth 

Of human words! roughness of mortal speech! 

Lispings empyrean will I sometimes teach 

Thine honey'd tongue — lute-breathings, which I gasp 

To have thee understand, now while I clasp 

Thee thus, and weep for fondness — I am pain'd, 

Endymion : woe ! woe ! is grief contain'd 

In the very deeps of pleasure, my sole life ?" — 

Hereat, with many sobs, her gentle strife 

Melted into a languor. He return'd 

Entranced vows and tears. 

547 



16 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ye who have yeam'd 
With too much passion, will here stay and pity, 
For the mere sake ol' truth ; as 'tis a ditty 
Not of these days, but long ago 't was told 
By a cavern wind unto a Ibrest old ; 
And then the Ibrest told it in a dream 
To a sleeping lake, whose cool and level gleam 
A poet caught as he was journeying 
To Phoebus' shrine ; and in it he did fling 
His weary limbs, bathing an hour's space, 
And alter, straight in that inspired place 
He sang the story up into the air. 
Giving it universal freedom. There 
Has it been ever sounding for those ears 
Whose tips are glowing hot. The legend cheers 
Yon sentinel star.s ; and he who listens to it 
Must surely be self-doom'd or he will rue it : 
For quenchless burnings come upon the heart, 
Made fiercer by a fear lest any part 
Should be ingulfed in the eddying wind. 
As much as here is penn'd doth always find 
A resting-place, thus much comes clear and plain ; 
Anon the strange voice is upon the wane — 
And 'tis but echoed from departing sound, 
That the fair visitant at last unwound 
Her gentle limbs, and left the youth asleep. — 
Thus the tradition of the gusty deep. 

Now turn we to our former chroniclers. — 
Endymion awoke, that grief of hers 
Sweet plaining on his ear : he sickly gue.ss'd 
How lone he was once more, and sadly press'd 
His empty arms together, hung his head. 
And most forlorn upon that widow'd bed 
Sat silently. Love's madness he had known : 
Often with more than tortured lion's groan 
Moanings had burst from him ; but now that rage 
Had pass'd away : no longer did he wage 
A rough-voiced war against the dooming stars. 
No, he had felt too much for such harsh jars : 
The lyre of his soul Eolian-tuned 
Forgot all violence, and but communed 
With melancholy thought : O he had swoon'd 
Drunken from pleasure's nipple ! and his love 
Henceforth was dove-like. — Loth was he to move 
From the imprinted couch, and when he did, 
'Twas with slow, languid paces, and face hid 
In muffling hands. So temper'd, out he slray'd 
Half seeing visions that might have dismay'd 
Alecio's serpents; ravishments more keen 
Than Hermes' pipe, when anxious he did lean 
Over eclipsing eyes : and at the last 
It was a sounding grotto, vaulted, vast, 
O'er-studded witii a thousand, thousand pearls. 
And crimson-mouthed shells with stubborn curls, 
Of every shape and size, even to the bulk 
In which whales arbor close, to brood and sulk 
Against an endless storm. Moreover too. 
Fish-semblances, of green and azure hue. 
Ready to snort their streams. In this cool wonder 
Endymion sat down, and 'gan to ponder 
On all his life : his youth, up to the day 
When 'mid acclaim, and feasts, and garlands gay, 
He slept upon his shepherd throne : the look 
Of his white palace in wild forest nook, 



And all the revels he had lorded there : 

Each tender maiden whom he once thought fair, 

With eveiy friend and fellow-woodiander — 

Pass'd like a dream before him. Then the spur 

Of the old bards to mighty deeds : his plans 

To nurse the golden age 'mong shepherd clans . 

riiat wondrous night: the great Pan-festival: 

His sister's sorrow ; and his wanderings all, 

Until into the earth's deep maw he rush'd : 

Then all its buried magic, till it Ilush'd 

High with excessive love. " And now," thought ho 

How long must I remain in jeopardy 
Of blank amazements tiiat amaze no more ? 
Now I have tasted her sweet soul to the core, 
All other depths are shallow : essences. 
Once spiritual, are like muddy lees. 
Meant but to fertilize my earthly root. 
And make my branches lift a golden fruit 
Into the bloom of heaven : other light, 
Though it be quick and sharp enough to blight 
The Olympian eagle's vision, is dark. 
Dark as the parentage of chaos. Hark ! 
My silent thoughts are echoing from these shells; 
Or are they but the ghosts, the dying swells 
Of noises iiir away ? — list! — Hereupon 
He kept an anxious ear. The humming tone 
Came louder, and behold, there as he lay. 
On either side out-gush'd, with misty spray, 
A copious spring ; and both together dash'd 
Swift, mad, fantastic round the rocks, and lash'd 
Among the conchs and shells of tiie lofty grot. 
Leaving a triekhng dew. At last they shot 
Down from the ceiling's height, pouring a noise 
As of some breathless racers whose hopes poise 
Upon tiie last few steps, and with spent force 
Along the ground they took a winding course. 
Endymion follow'd — for it seem'd that one 
Ever pursued, the other strove to shun — 
Follow'd their languid mazes, till well-nigh 
He had left thinking of the mystery, — 
And was now rapt in tender hoverings 
Over the vanish'd bliss. Ah ! what is it sings 
His dream away ? What melodies are these ? 
They sound as through the whispering of trees. 
Not native in such barren vaults. Give ear! 

" O Arethusa, peerless nymph ! why fear 
Such tenderness as mine? Great Dian, why. 
Why didst thou hear her prayer ? O that I 
Were rippling round her dainty fairness now. 
Circling about her waist, and striving how 
To entice her to a dive I then stealing in 
Between her luscious lips and eyelids thin. 
O that her shining hair was in the sun. 
And I distilling from it thence to run 
In amorous rillets down her shrinking form ! 
To linger on her lily shoulders, warm 
Between her kissing breasts, and every charm 
Touch raptured ! — See how painfully I flow : 
Fair maid, be pitiful to my great woe. 
Stay, stay thy weary course, and let me lead, 
A happy wooer, to the flowery mead 
Where all that beauty snared me." — " Cruel God 
Desist ! or my offended mistress' nod 
Will stagnate all thy fountains : — tease me not 
548 



ENDYMION. 



17 



With syren words — Ah, have I really got 

Such power to madden thee ? And is it true — 

Away, away, or I shall dearly rue 

My very thoughts : in mercy then away, 

Kindest Alpheus, for should I obey 

My own dear will, 'twould be a deadly bane." — 

" O, Oread-Queen ! would that thou hadst a pain 

Like this of mine, then would I fearless turn 

And be a criminal." — " Alas, I burn, 

I shudder — gentle river, get thee hence. 

Alpheus ! thou enchanter ! every sense 

Of mine was once made perfect in these woods. 

Fresh breezes, bowery lawns, and innocent floods, 

Ripe fruits, and lonely couch, contentment gave ; 

But ever since I heedlessly did lave 

In tliy deceitful stream, a panting glow 

Grew strong within me : wherefore serve me so, 

And call it love? Alas! 'twas cruelty. 

Not once more did I close my happy eyes 

Amid the thrush's song. Away! Avaunt! 

'twas a cruel thing." — " Now thou dost taunt 
So softly, Arethusa, that I think 

If thou wast playing on my shady brink. 

Thou wouklst bathe once again. Innocent maid ! 

Stifle thine heart no more ; — nor be afraid 

Of angry powers : there are deities 

Will shade us with their wings. Those fitful sighs 

'T is almost death to hear : O let me pour 

A dewy balm upon them ! — fear no more, 

Sweet Arethusa ! Dian's self must feel. 

Sometimes, these very pangs. Dear maiden, steal 

Blushing into my soul, and let us fly 

Tliese dreary caverns for the open sky. 

1 will delight thee all my winding course, 
From the green sea up to my hidden source 
About Arcadian forests ; and will show 
The channels where my coolest waters flow 
Through mossy rocks ; where, 'mid exuberant green, 
I roam in pleasant darkness, more unseen 

Than Saturn in his exile ; where I brim 

Round flowery islands, and take thence a skim 

Of mealy sweets, which myriads of bees 

Buzz from their honey'd wings : and thou shouldst 

please 
Thyself to choose the richest, where we might 
Be incense-pillow'd every summer night. 
Doff all sad fears, thou while deliciousness. 
And let us be thus comforted ; imless 
Thou couldst rejoice to see my hopeless stream 
Hurry distracted from Sol's temperate beam. 
And pour to death along .some hungry sands."—. 
" What can I do, Alpheus ? Dian stands 
Severe before me • persecuting fate ! 
Unhappy Arethusa I thou wast late 
A huntress free in" — At this, sudden fell 
Those two sad streams adown a fearful dell. 
The Latmian listen'd, but he heard no more, 
Save echo, faint repealing o'er and o'er 
The name of Arethusa. On the verge 
Of that dark gulf he wept, and said . " I urge 
Thee, gentle Goddess of my pilgrimage. 
By our eternal hopes, to soothe, to assuage 
If thou art powerful, these lovers' pains ; 
And make them happy ia some happy plains." 



He turn'd — there was a whelming somid — he slept, 
There wis a cooler light ; and so he kept 



Towards it by a sandy path, and lo! 
More suddenly than doth a moment go. 
The visions of the earth were gone and fled — 
He saw the giant sea above his head. 



BOOK III. 



TiTKUE are who lord it o'er their fellow-mea 
With most prevailing tinsel : who unpen 
Their baaing vanities, to browse away 
The comfortable green and juicy hay 
From humaH pastures ; or, O torturing fact ! 
Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd 
Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe 
Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge 
Of sanctuary splendor, nor a sight 
Able to face an owl's, they still are dight 
By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests. 
And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts. 
Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount 
To their spirit's perch, their being's high account. 
Their tip-top nothings, their dull skies, their thrones — 
Amid the fierce intoxicating tones 
Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabor'd drums. 
And sudden cannon. Ah ! iiow all this hums, 
In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone — 
Like thunder-clouds that spake to Babylon, 
And set those old Chaldeans to their tasks. — 
Are then regalities all gilded masks ? 
No, there are throned seats unscalable 
But by a patient wing, a constant spell. 
Or by ethereal things that, unconfined. 
Can make a ladder of the eternal wind, 
And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents 
To watch the abysm-birth of elements. 
Aye, 'bove the withering of old-Iipp'd Fate 
A thousand powers keep religious state. 
In water, fiery realm, and airy bourn ; 
And, silent as a consecrated urn. 
Hold sphery sessions for a season due. 
Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few! 
Have bared their operations to this globe — 
Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe 
Our piece of heaven — whose benevolence 
Shakes hand w ith our own Ceres ; every sense 
Filling with spiritual sweets to plenitude. 
As bees gorge full their cells. And by the feud 
'Tvvixt Nothing and Creation, I here swear, 
Eterne Apollo ! that thy Sister fair 
Is of all these the gentlier-mightiest. 
When thy gold breath is misting in the west. 
She unobserved steals unio her throne. 
And there she sits most meek and most alone; 
As if she had not pomp sub.servient ; 
As if thine eye, high Poet ! was not bent 
Towards her with the Muses in thine heart; 
As if the ministering stars kept not apart. 
Wailing for silver-footed messages. 
O Moon ! the oldest shades 'mong oldest trees 
Feel palpitations when thou lookest in: 
O Moon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din 
The while they feel thine airy fellowship. 
Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip 
549 



18 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine, 
Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields divine : 
Innumerable mountains rise, and rise, 
Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes ; 
And yet thy benediction passeth not 
One obscure hiding-place, one httle spot 
Where pleasure may be sent : the nested wren 
Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken. 
And from beneath a sheltering ivy leaf 
Takes glimpses of thee ; thou art a relief 
To the poor patient oyster, where it sleeps 
Within its pearly house : — The mighty deeps, 
The monstrous sea is thine — the myriad sea I 
O Moon ! far-spooming Ocean bows to thee, 
And Tellus feels her forehead's cumbrous load. 



Cynthia ! where art thou now ? What far abode 
Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine 
Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine 
For one as sorrowful : thy cheek is pale 
For one whose cheek is pale : thou dost bewail 
His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost thou sigh ? 
Ah ! surely that light peeps from Vesper's eye, 
Or what a thing is love ! 'Tis She, but lo! 
How changed, how full of ache, hov^' gone in woe ! 
She dies at the thinnest cloud ; her loveliness 
Is wan on Neptune's blue: yet there's a stress 
Of love-spangles, just off yon cape of trees, 
Dancing upon the waves, as if to please 
The curly foam with amorous influence. 
O, not so idle I for down-glancing thence, 
She felhoms eddies, and runs wild about 
O'erwhelming water-courses ; scaring out 
The thorny sharks from hiding-holes, and fright'ning 
Their savage eyes with unaccustom'd lightning. 
Where will the splendor be content to reach ? 
O love ! how potent hast thou been to teach 
Strange journeyings ! Wherever beauty dwells, 
In gulf or aerie, mountains or deep dells, 
In liglit, in gloom, in star or blazing sun, 
Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won. 
Amid his toil thou gavest Leander breath; 
Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death ; 
Thou madest Pluto bear Ihin element : 
And now, O winged Chieftain ! thou hast sent 
A moonbeam to the deep, deep water-world, 
To find Eudymion. 



On gold sand impearl'd 
With lily .shells, and pebbles milky white. 
Poor Cynthia greeted him, and soothed her light 
Against his pallid face: he felt the charm 
To breathlessness, and suddenly a warm 
Of his heart's blood : 't was very sweet ; he stay'd 
His wandering steps, and half-entranced laid 
His head upon a tuft of straggling weeds. 
To taste the gentle moon, and freshening beads, 
Lash'd from the crystal roof by fishes' tails. 
And so he kept, until the rosy veils 
Mantling the east, by Aurora's peering hand 
Were lifted from the water's breast, and fann'd 
Into sweet air ; and sober'd morning came 
Meekly through billows ; — when liiie taper-flame 
Left sudden by a dallying breath of air. 
He rose in silence, and once more 'gan fare 



Along his fated way. 

Far had he roam'd. 
With nothing save the hollow vast, that foam'd 
Above, around, and at his feet; save things 
More dead than Morpheus' imaginings : 
Old rusted anchors, helmets, breastplates large 
Of gone sea-warriors ; brazen beaks and targe ; 
Rudders that for a hundred years had lost 
The sway of human hand ; gold vase emboss'd 
With long-forgotten story, and wherein 
No reveller had ever dipp'd a chin 
But those of Saturn's vintage ; mouldering scrolls, 
Writ in the tongue of heaven, by those souls 
Who first were on the earth ; and sculptures rude 
In ponderous stone, developing the mood 
Of ancient Nox ; — then skeletons of man. 
Of beast, behemoth, and leviathan. 
And elephant, and eagle, and huge jaw 
Of nameless monster. A cold leaden awe 
These secrets struck into him ; and unless 
Dian had chased away that heaviness. 
He might have died : but now, with cheered feel, 
He onward kept ; wooing these thoughts to steal 
About the labyrinth in his soul of love. 



" What is there in thee, Moon ! that thou shouldst 
move 
My heart so potently 1 When yet a child, 
I oft have dried my tears when thou hast smiled. 
Thou seem'dst my sister : hand in hand we went 
From eve to morn across the iirmament. 
No apples would I gather from the tree. 
Till thou hadst cool'd their cheeks deliciously : 
No luniljling water ever spake romance. 
But when my eyes with thine thereon could dance : 
No woods were green enough, no bower divine, 
Until thou lifted'st up thine eyelids fine : 
In sowing-time ne'er would I dibble take. 
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake ; 
And, in the .summer-tide of blossoming, 
No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing 
And mesli my dewy flowers all the night. 
No melody was lihe a passing spright 
If it went not lo solemnize thy reign. 
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 
By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end ; 
And as I grew in years, still didst thou blend 
With all my ardors : thou wast the deep glen ; 
Thou wast the mountain-top — the sage's pen — 
Tiie poet's harp — the voice of friends — the sun ; 
Thou wast the river — thou wast glory won ; 
Thou wast my clarion's blast — thou wast my steed — 
My goblet full of wine — my topmost deed : — 
Thou wast the charm of women, lovely Moon ! 
O what a wild and harmonized tune 
My spirit struck from all the beautiful ! 
On some bright essence could I lean, and lull 
Myself to immortality : I prest 
Nature's soft pillow in a wakeful rest. 
But, gentle Orb ! there came a nearer bliss — 
My strange love came — Felicity's abyss ! 
She came, and thou didst fade, and fade away — 
Yet not entirely ; no, thy starry sway 
Has been an imder-passion to this hour. 
Now I begin to feel thine orby power 
550 



ENDYMION. 



19 



Ts coming fresh upon me : O be kind ! 

Keep back thine influence, and do not blind 

My sovereign vision. — Dearest love, forgive 

That I can think away from tliee and live! — 

Pardon me, airy planet, that I prize 

One thought beyond thine argent luxuries ! 

How far beyond ! " At this a surprised start 

p>osted the springing verdure of his lieart ; 

For as he lifted up his eyes to swear 

How his own goddess was past all things fair, 

He saw far in the concave green of the sea 

An old man sitting calm and peacefully. 

Upon a weeded rock this old man sat. 

And his white hair was awful, and a mat 

Of weeds was cold beneath his cold thin feet; 

And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, 

A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, 

O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest groans 

Of ambitious magic : every ocean-form 

Was woven in with black distinctness : storm. 

And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar 

Were emblem'd in the woof; with every shape 

That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape, 

The gulfing whale was like a dot in the spell, 

Yet look upon it, and 'twould size and swell 

To its huge self; and the minutest fish 

Would pass the very hardest gazer's wish. 

And show his liule eye's anatomy. 

Then there was pictured the regality 

Of Neptiuie ; and the sea-nymphs round his state, 

In beauteous vassalage, look up and wait. 

Beside this old man lay a pearly wand. 

And in his lap a book, the which he conn'd 

So stedfastly, that the new denizen 

Had time to keep him in amazed ken. 

To mark these shadowings, and stand in awe. 

The old man raised his hoary head and saw 
The wilder'd stranger — seeming not to see, 
His features were so lifeless. Suddenly 
He woke as from a trance ; his snow-white brows 
Went arching up, and like two magic plows 
Furrovv'd deep wrinkles in his forehead large, 
Which kept as fixedly as rocky marge. 
Till round his wither'd lips had gone a smile. 
Then up he rose, like one whose tedious toil 
Had vvatch'd for years in forlorn hermitage. 
Who had not from mid-life to utmost age 
Eased in one accent his o'er-burden'd soul. 
Even to the trees. He rose : he grasp'd his stole, 
With convulsed clenches waving it abroad. 
And in a voice of solemn joy, that awed 
Echo into oblivion, he said : — 

" Thou art the man ! Now shall I lay my head 
In peace upon my watery pillow : now 
Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow. 

I O Jove ! I shall be young again, be young ! 
O shell-born Neptune, I am pierced and stung 
With new-bom life ! What shall I do ? Where go, 

I When I have cast this serpent-skin of woe ? — 
I'll swim to the syrens, and one moment listen 

I Their melodies, and see their long hair glisten ; 

I Anon upon that giant's arm I'll be, 

i That writhes about the roots of Sicily : 
40* 3K 



To northern seas I'll in a twinkling sail, 

And mount upon the snortings of a whale 

To some black cloud ; thence down I '11 madly sweep 

On forked lightning, to the deepest deep. 

Where through some sucking pool I will be hurl'd 

With rapture to the other side of the world ! 

O, I am full of gladness ! Sisters three, 

I tow full-hearted to your old decree ! 

Yes, every God be thank'd, and power benign, 

For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. 

Thou art the man I " Kndymion started back 

Dismay'd ; and, like a wretch from whom the rack 

Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony, 

Mutter'd : " What lonely death am I to die 

In this cold region ? Will he let me freeze. 

And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas ? 

Or will he touch me with his searing hand, 

And leave a black memorial on the sand ? 

Or tear me piecemeal with a bony saw. 

And keep me as a chosen food to draw 

His magian fish through hated fire and flame ? 

misery of hell ! resistless, tame. 

Am I to be burnt up ? No. I will shout, 

Until the Gods through heaven's blue look out! — 

Tartarus! but some few days agone 
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on 

Her voice 1 hung like fruit among green leaves : 
Her lips were all my own, and — ah, riiie sheaves 
Of happiness! ye on the slui)ble droop. 
But never may be garner'd. I must sloop 
My head, and kiss death's foot. Love ! love, farewell ! 
Is there no hope from thee ? This horrid spell 
Would melt at thy sweet breath. — By Diau's hind 
Feeding from her white fingers, on the wind 

1 see thy streaming hair! and now, by Pan, 
I care not for this old mysterious man ! " 

He spake, and walking to tliat aged form, 
Look'd high defiance. Lo ! his heart 'gan warm 
Willi pity, for ihe gray-hair'd creature wept. 
Had he then wrong'd a heart where sorrow kept? 
Had he, though blindly contumelious, brought. 
Rheum to kind eyes, a sting to human thought, 
Convulsion to a mouth of many years ? 
He had in truth ; and he was ri[>e for tears. 
The penitent shower fell, as down he knelt 
Before that care-worn sage, who trembling felt 
About his large dark locks, and faltering spake . 

" Arise, good youth, for sacred Phcebus' sake ! 
I know thine inmost bosom, and I feel 
A very brother's yearning for thee steal 
Into mine own : for why ? tliou openest 
The prison-gates that have so long ojiprest 
My weary watching. Though thou know'st it not. 
Thou art commissioii'd to this fated spot 
For great enfranchisement. O woep no more ; 
I am a friend to love, to loves of yore : 
Ay, hadst thou never loved an unknown power, 
I had been grieving at this joyous hour. 
But even now most miserable old, 
I saw iheo, and my blood no longer cold 
Gave mighty pulses : in this tottering case 
Grew a new heart, which at this moment plays 
As dancingly as thine. Be not afraid, 
For thou shall hear this secret all dfsplay'd, 
551 



20 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Now as we speed towards our joyous task." 

So saying, this young soul in age's mask 
Went forward with the Carian side by side : 
Resuming quickly tlius ; while ocean's tide 
Hung swollen at their backs, and jewell'd sands 
Took silently their loot-prints. 

" My soul stands 
Now past the midway from mortality, 
And so I can prepare without a sigh 
To tell thee briefly all my joy and pain. 
I was a fisher once, upon this main, 
And my boat danced in every creek and bay ; 
Rough billows were my home by night and day, — 
The sea-gulls not more constant ; for I had 
No housing from the storm and tempests mad, 
But hollow rocks, — and they were palaces 
Of silent happiness, of slumberous ease : 
Long years of misery have told me so. 
Ay, thus it was one thousand years ago. 
One thousand years ! — Is it then possible 
To look so plainly through ihem ? to dispel 
A thousand years with backward glance sublime ? 
To breathe away as 'twere all scummy slime 
From off a crystal pool, to see its deep. 
And one's own image from the bottom peep? 
Yes : now I am no longer wretched thrall, 
My long captivity and moanings all 
Are but a slime, a thin-pervading scum. 
The which I breathe away, and thronging come 
Like things of yesterday my youthful pleasures. 

" I touch 'd no lute, I sang not, trod no measures : 
I was a lonely youth on desert shores. 
My sports were lonely, 'mid continuous roars. 
And craggy isles, and sea-mews' plaintive cry 
Plaining discrepant between sea and sky. 
Dolphins were still my playmates ; shapes unseen 
Would let me Ibel their scales of gold and green, 
Nor be my desolation ; and, full oft. 
When a dread water-spout had rear'd aloft 
Its hungry hugeness, seeming ready ripe 
To burst with hoarsest thunderings, and wipe 
My life away like a vast sponge of fate. 
Some friendly monster, pitying my sad state, 
Has dived to its foundations, gulf'd it down, 
And left me tossing safely. But the crown 
Of all my life was utmost quietude : 
More did I love to lie in cavern rude, 
Keeping in wait whole days for Neptune's voice, 
And if it came at last, hark, and rejoice ! 
There blush'd no summer eve but I would steer 
My skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear 
The shepherd's pipe come clear from aery steep, 
Mingled with ceaseless hlealings of his sheep : 
And never was a. day of summer shine. 
But I beheld its birth upon the brine ; 
For I would watch all night to see unfold 
Heaven's gates, and ^thon snort his morning gold 
Wide o'er the swelling streams : and constantly 
At brim of day-tide, on .some grassy lea. 
My nets would be spread out, and I at rest. 
The poor folk of the sea-country I blest 
With daily boon of fish most delicate: 
Thev knew not whence this bounty, and elate 



Would strew sweet flowers on a sterile beach. 

" Why was I not contented ? Wherefore reach 
At things which, but for thee, O Latmian ! 
Had been my dreary death ! Fool ! I began 
To feel distemper'd longings : to desire 
The utmost privilege that ocean's sire 
Could grant in benediction : to be free 
Of all his kingdom. Long in misery 
I wasted, ere in one extremes! fit 
I plimged for life or death. To interknit 
One's senses with so dense a breathing stuff 
Might seem a work of pain ; so not enough 
Can I admire how crystal-smooth it felt. 
And buoyant round my limbs. At first I dvi'elt 
Whole days and days in sheer astonishment ; 
Forgetful utterly of self-intent ; 
Moving but with the mighty ebb and flow. 
Then, like a new-fledged bird that first doth show 
His spreaded feathers to the morrow chill, 
I tried in fear the pinions of my will. 
'Twas freedom ! and at once I visited 
The ceaseless wonders of this ocean-bed. 
No need to tell thee of them, for I see 
That thou hast been a witness — it must be 
F^or these I know thou canst not feel a drouth, 
By the melancholy corners of that mouth. 
So I will in my story straightway pass 
To more immediate matter. Woe, alas ! 
That love should be my bane ! Ah, Scylla fair ! 
Why did poor Glaucus ever — ever dare 
To sue thee to his heart ? Kind stranger-youth ! 
I loved her to the very white of truth. 
And she would not conceive it. Timid thing! 
She fled me swift as sea-bird on the wing, 
Round every isle, and point, and promontory, 
From where large Hercules wound up his story 
Far as Egyptian Nile. My passion grew 
The more, the more I saw her dainty hue 
Gleam delicately through the azure clear : 
Until 'twas too fierce agony to bear; 
And in that agony, across my grief 
It flash'd, that Circe might find some relief- 
Cruel enchantress '. So above the water 
I rear'd my head, and look'd for Phoebus' daughttr. 
^a>a's isle was wondering at the moon : — 
It seem'd to whirl around me, and a swoon 
Left me dead-drifting to that fatal power. 

" When I awoke, 'twas in a twilight bower; 
Just when the light of morn, with hum of bees. 
Stole through its verdurou.s matting of fresh trees. 
How sweet, and sweeter ! for I heard a lyre. 
And over it a sighing voice expire. 
It ceased — I caught light footsteps ; and anon 
The fairest face that morn e'er look'd upon 
Push'd through a screen of roses. Starry Jove ! 
With tears, and smiles, and honey-words she wove> 
A net whose thraldom was more bliss than all 
The range of flower'd Elysium. Thus did fall 
The dew of her rich speech : " Ah ! art awake ? 

let me hear thee speak, for Cupid's sake ! 

1 am so oppress'd with joy ! Why, I have shed 
An urn of tears, as though thou wert cold dead; 
And now I find thee hving, I will pour 

P'rom these devoted eyes their silver store, 
552 



ENDYMION. 



21 



Until exhausted of the latest drop, 

So it will pleasure thee, and force thee stop 

Here, that I too may live : but if beyond 

Such cool and sorrowful offerings, thou art fond 

Of soothing warmth, of dalliance supreme ; 

If thou art ripe to taste a long love-dream ; 

If smiles, if dimples, tongues for ardor mute, 

Hang in thy vision like a tempting fruit, 

O let me pluck it for thee." Tlius she link'd 

Her charming syllables, till indistinct 

Tlieir music came to my o'er-sweeten'd soul ; 

And then she hover'd over me, and stole 

So near, tliat if no nearer it had been 

This furrow'd visage thou hadst never seen. 

" Young man of Latmos ! thus particular 
Am I, that thou mayst plainly see how far 
This fierce temptation went : and thou mayst not 
Exclaim, How tlien, was Scylla quite forgot ? 

" Who could resist ? Who in this universe ? 
She did so breathe ambrosia ; so immerse 
My fine existence in a golden clime. 
She look nie like a child of suckling time. 
And cradled me in roses. Thus condemn'd, 
The current of my former life was slemm'd, 
And to this arbitrary queen of sense 
J bow'd a tranced vassal : nor would thence 
Have moved, even though Amphion's heart had woo'd 
Me back to Scylla o'er the billows rude. 
For as Apollo each eve doth devise 
A new apparelling for western skies ; 
So every eve, nay, every spendthrift hour 
Shed balmy consciousness within that bower. 
And I was free of haunts umbrageous ; 
Could wander in the mazy forest-house 
Of squirrels, foxes sly, and antler'd deer, 
And birds from coverts innermost and drear 
Warbling for very joy mellifluous sorrow — 
To me new-born delights ! 

" Now let me borrow, 
For moments few, a temperament as stern 
As Pluto's sceptre, that my words not burn 
These uttering lips, while I in calm speech tell 
How specious heaven was changed to real hell. 



"One morn she left me sleeping : half awake 
I sought for her smooth arms and lips, to slake 
My greedy thirst with neetarous camel-draiigiits ; 
But she was gone. Whereat the barbed shafts 
Of disappointment stuck in me so sore. 
That out I ran and search'd the forest o'er. 
Wandering about in pine and cedar gloom, 
Damp awe assail'd me ; for there 'gan to boom 
A sound of moan, an agony of sound. 
Sepulchral from the distance all around. 
Then came a conquering earih-thunder, and rumbled 
That fierce con\plain to silence : while I stumbled 
Down a precipitous path, as if impell'd, 
I came to a dark valley. — Groanings swell'd 
Poisonous about my ears, and louder grew, 
The nearer I approacli'd a /lame's gaunt blue, 
That glared before me through a thorny brake. 
Tliia fire, like the eye of gordian snake, 



Bewitch'd me towards; and I soon was near 

A sight too fearful for the feel of fear ; 

In thicket hid I cursed the haggard scene — 

The banquet of my arms, my arbor queen, 

Seated upon an uptorn Ibrest root ; 

And all around her shapes, wizard and brute, 

Laughing, and wailing, grovelling, serpenting. 

Showing tooth, tusk, and venom-bag, and sting ! 

O such deformities ! Old Charon's self. 

Should he give up awhile his penny pelf. 

And take a dream 'mong rushes Stygian, 

It could not be so fantasied. Fierce, wan. 

And tyrannizing was the lady's look. 

As over them a gnarled staff she shook. 

Oft-times upon the sudden she laugh'd out. 

And from a basket emptied to the rout 

Clusters of grapes, the which they raven'd quick 

And roar'd for more ; with many a hungry lick 

About their shaggy jaws. Avenging, slow. 

Anon she took a branch of mistletoe. 

And emptied on't a black dull-gurgling phial: 

Groan'd one and all, as if some piercing trial 

Was sharpening for their pitiable Ixmes. 

She lifted up the charm : appealing groans 

From their poor breasts went suing to her eat 

In vain ; remorseless as an infant's bier. 

She whisk'd against their eyes the sooty oil. 

Whereat was heard a noise of painful toil, 

Increasing gradual to a tempest rage. 

Shrieks, yells, and groans of^ torture-pilgrimage , 

Until their grieved bodies 'gan to bloat 

And puff from the tail's end to stifled throat . 

Then was appalling silence : then a sight 

More wildering than all that hoarse affright , 

For the whole herd, as by a whirlwind writhen 

Went through the dismal air like one huge Python 

Antagonizing Boreas, — and so vanish'd. 

Yet there was not a breath of wind : she banish'd 

These phantoms with a nod. Lo ! from the dark 

Came waggish fauns, and nymphs, and satyrs stark, 

With dancing and loud reveliy, and went 

Swifter than centaurs after rapine bent. — 

Sighing an elephant appear'd and bow'd 

Before the fierce witch, speaking thus aloud 

In human accent : ' Potent goddess! chief 

Of pains resistless I make my being brief. 

Or let me from this heavy prison fly : 

Or give me to the air, or let me die ! 

I sue not for my happy crown again ; 

I sue not for my phalanx on the plain ; 

I sue not for my lone, my widow'd wife : 

I sue not for my ruddy drops of life. 

My children fair, my lovely girls and boys ! 

I will forget them ; I w ill pass these joys ; 

Ask naught so heavenward, .so too — too high : 

Only I pray, as fairest Ixion, to die. 

Or be deliver'd from this cumbrous flesh. 

From this gross, detestable, filthy mesh, 

.\nd merely given to the cold bleak air. 

Have mercy. Goddess! Circe, feel my prayer!' 



"That curst magician's name fell icy numb 
Upon my wild conjecturing: truth had come 
Naked and sabre-like against my heart. 
I saw a fury whetting a death-dart ; 
553 



22 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And ray slain spirit, overwrought with fright, 

Famted away in that dark lair of night. 

Think, my deliverer, how desolate 

My waking must have been ! disgust, and hate, 

And terrors manifold divided me 

A spoil amongst them. I prepared to flee 

Into the dungeon core of that wild wood : 

I fled three days — when lo ! before me stood 

Glaring the angry witch, O Dis, even now, 

A clammy dew is beading on my brow. 

At mere remembering her pale laugh, and curse. 

' Ha ! ha ! Sir Dainty ! there must be a nurse 

Made of rose-leaves and thistle-down, express, 

To cradle thee, my sweet, and lull thee : yes, 

I am too flinty-hard for thy nice touch : 

My tenderest squeeze is but a giant's clutch. 

So, fairy-thing, it shall have lullabies 

Unheard of yet ; and it shall still its cries 

Upon some breast more lily-feminine. 

Oh, no, — it shall not pine, and pine, and pine 

More than one pretty, trifling thousand years ; 

And then 'twere pity, but fate's gentle shears 

Cut short its immortality. Sea-flirt! 

Young dove of the waters ! truly I '11 not hurt 

One hair of thine : see how I weep and sigh, 

That our heart-broken parting is so nigh. 

And must we part ? Ah, yes, it must be so. 

Yet ere thou leavest me in utter woe, 

Let me sob over thee my last adieus. 

And speak a blessing : Mark me ! Thou hast thews 

Immortal, for thou art of heavenly race : 

But such a love is mine, that here I chase 

Eternally away from thee all bloom 

Of youth, and destine thee towards a tomb. 

Hence shalt thou quickly to the watery vast ; 

And there, ere many days be overpast. 

Disabled age shall seize thee; and even then 

Thou shalt not go the way of aged men ; 

But live and wither, cripple and still breathe 

Ten hundred years : which gone, I then bequeath 

Thy fragile bones to unlinown burial. 

Adieu, sweet love, adieu ! ' — As shot stars fall, 

She fled ere I could groan for mercy. Stung 

And poison'd was my spirit : despair sung 

A war-song of defiance 'gainst all hell. 

A hand was at my shoulder to compel 

My sullen steps ; another 'fore my eyes 

Moved on with pointed finger. In this guise 

Enforced, at the last by ocean's foam 

1 found me ; by my fresh, my native home, 

Its tempering coolness, to my life akin. 

Came salutary as I waded in ; 

And, with a blind voluptuous rage, I gave 

Battle to the swollen billow-ridge, and drave 

Large froth before me, while there yet remain'd 

Hale strength, nor I'rom my bones all marrow drain'd. 

" Young lover, I must weep — such hellish spite 
With dry cheek who can tell ? While thus my might 
Proving upon this element, dismay'd, 
Upon a dead thing's face my hand I laid ; 
I look'd — 'twas Scylla ! Cursed, cursed Circe! 
O vulture-witch, hast never heard of mercy ! 
Could not thy harshest vengeance be content. 
But thou must nip this tender innocent 



Because I loved her ? — Cold, O cold indeed 
Were her fair limbs, and like a common weed 
The sea-swell look her hair. Dead as she was 
I clung about her waist, nor ceased to pass 
Fleet as an arrow through unfathom'd brine. 
Until there shone a fabric crystalline, 
Ribb'd and inlaid with coral, pebble, and pearl. 
Headlong I darted ; at one eager swirl 
Gain'd its bright portal, enter'd, and behold ! 
'T was vast, and desolate, and icy-cold ; 
And all around — But wherefore this to thee 
Who in few minutes more thyself shalt see ? — ■ 
I left poor Scylla in a niche and fled. 
My fever'd parchings up, my scathing dread 
Met palsy half-way : soon these limbs became 
Gaunt, wither'd, sapless, feeble, cramp'd, and laiue. 

Now let me pass a cruel, cruel space. 
Without one hope, without one faintest trace 
Of mitigation, or redeeming bubble 
Of color'd fantasy ; for I fear 'tW'Ould trouble 
Thy brain to loss of reason ; and next tell 
How a restoring chance came down to quell 
One half of the witch in me. 

" On a day. 
Sitting upon a rock above the spray, 
I saw grow op from the liorizon's brink 
A gallant vessel : soon she seem'd to sink 
Away from me again, as though her course 
Had been resumed in spite of hindering force — 
So vanish'd : and not long, before arose 
Dark clouds, and muttering of winds morose. 
Old Eolus would stifle his mad spleen. 
But could not : therefore all the billows green 
Toss'd up the silver spume against the clouds. 
The tempest came: I saw that vessel's shrouds 
In perilous bustle; wliile upon tlie deck 
Stood trembling creatures. I beheld the wreck , 
The final gulfing ; the poor strus^jling souls : 
I heard their cries amid loud Ihunder-roUs. 

they had all benn saved but crazed eld 
AnnuU'd my vigorous cravings : and thus quell'd 
And curb'd, think on't, O Latmian! did I sit 
Writhing with pity, and a cursing fit 

Against that hell-born Circe. The crew had gone, 

By one and one, to pale oblivion ; 

And 1 was gazing on the surges prone. 

With many a scalding tear and many a groan, 

When at my feet emerged an old man's hand. 

Grasping this scroll, and this same slender wand. 

1 knelt with pain — reach'd out my hand — had grasp'd 
These treasures — touch'd the knuckles — they un- 

clasp'd — 
I caught a finger : but the downward weight 
O'erpower'd me — it sank. Then 'gan abate 
The storm, and through chill anguish, gloom outburst 
The comfortable sun. I was alhirst 
To search the book, and in the warming air 
Parted its dripping leaves with eager care. 
Strange matters did it treat of, and drew on 
My soul page after page, till v\el'-nigh won 
Into forgelfulness ; wlien, stupefied, 
I read these words, and read again, and tried 
My eyes against the heavens, and read again 
O what a load of misery and pain 

554 



ENDYMION 



23 



Each Atlas-line bore off! — a shine of hope 
Came gold around me, cheering me to cope 
Strenuous with hellish tyranny. Attend ! 
For thou hast brought their promise to an end. 

" ' In the wide sea there lives a forlorn wretch, 
Doom'd with enfeebled carcass to outstretch 
His lothed existence through ten centuries, 
And then to die alone, who can devise 
A total opposition ? No one. So 
One million times ocean must ebb and flow, 
And he oppress'd. Yet he shall not die, 
These things accomplish'd : — If he utterly 
Scans all the depths of magic, and expounds 
The meanings of all motions, shapes, and sounds ; 
If he explores all forms and substances 
Straight homeward to their symbol-essences ; 
He shall not die. JNIoreover, and in chief. 
He must pursue tliis task of joy and grief, 
Most piously ; — all lovers tempest-tost, 
And in the savage overwhelming lost, 
He shall deposit side by side, until 
Time's creeping shall the dreary space fulfil : 
Which done, and all these labors ripened, 
A youth, by heavenly power beloved and led, 
Shall stand before him ; whom he shall direct 
How to consummate all. The youth elect 
Must do the thing, or both will be destroy'd.' " — 



" Then," cried the young Endymlon, overjoy'd, 
" We are twin brothers in this destiny ! 
Say, I entreat thee, what achievement high 
Is, in this restless world, for me reserved. 
What ! if from thee my wandering feet had swerved, 
Had we both perish'd I " — " Look ! " the sage replied, 
" Dost thou not mark a gleaming through the tide. 
Of divers brilliances? 'tis the edifice 
I told thee of, w here lovely Scylla lies ; 
And where I have enshrined piously 
All lovers, whom fell storms have doom'd to die 
Throughout my bondage." Thus discoursing, on 
They went till unobscured the porches shone ; 
Which hurryingly they gain'd, and enter'd straight. 
Sure never since king Neptune held his state 
Was seen such wonder underneath the stars. 
Turn to some level plain where haughty Mars 
Has legion'd all his battle ; and behold 
How every soldier, with firm foot, doth hold 
His even breast: see, many steeled squares. 
And rigid ranks of iron — whence who dares 
One step? Imagine further, line by line. 
These warrior thousands on the field supine : — 
So in that crystal place, in silent rows. 
Poor lovers lay at rest from joys and woes. — 
The stranger from the mountains, breathless, traced 
Such thousands of shut eyes in order placed ; 
Such ranges of while feet, and patient lips 
All ruddy, — for here deatii no blossom nips. 
He mark'd their brows and foreheads ; saw tlieir hair 
Put sleekly on one side with nicest care ; 
And each one's gentle wrists, with reverence, 
Put crosswise to its heart. 



" Let us commence 
fWhisper'd the guide, stuttering with joy) even now." 
He spake, and, trembling like an aspen-bough. 



Began to tear his scroll in pieces small. 
Uttering the while some mumblings funeral. 
He lore it into pieces small as snow- 
That drifts unfealher'd when bleak northerns blow; 
And having done it, took his dark-blue cloak 
And bound it round Endymion : then struck 
His wand against the empty air times nine. — 

What more there is to do, young man, is lliine : 
But first a little patience ; first undo 
This tangled thread, and wind it to a clue. 
Ah, gentle! 'tis as weak as spider's skein; 
And shouldst thou break it — What, is it done so clean ? 
A power overshadows thee ! Oh, brave I 
The spite of hell is tumbling to its grave. 
Here is a shell ; 'tis pearly blank to me. 
Nor mark'd with any sign or charactery — 
Canst thou read aught? O read for pity's sake! 
Olympus! we are safe! Now, Carian, break 
This wand against yon lyre on the pedestal." 

'Twas done : and straight with sudden swell and 
fall 
Sweet music breathed her soul away, and sigh'd 
A lullaby to silence. — " Youth ! now strew 
These minced leaves on me, and passing tlirough 
Those files of dead, scatter the same around, 
And thou wilt see the issue." — 'Mid the sound. 
Of flutes and viols, ravishing his heart, 
Endymion from Glaucus stood apart. 
And scatter'd in his fiice some fragments light. 
How lightning-swift the change ! a youthful wight 
Smiling beneath a coral diadem. 
Out-sparkling sudden like an upturn'd gem, 
Appear'd, and, stepping to a beauteous corse, 
Kneel'd down beside it, and with tenderest force 
Press'd its cold hand, and wept, — and Scylla sigh'd! 
Endymion, with quick hand, the charm applied — 
The nymph arose : he left them to their joy. 
And onward went upon his high employ. 
Showering those powerful fragments ou the dead 
And, as he pass'd, each lifted up its head, 
As doth a flower at Apollo's touch. 
Death felt it to his inwards ; 'twas too m..ch : 
Death fell a-weeping in his charnel-house. 
The Latmian persevered along, and thus 
All were reanimated. There arose 
A noise of harmony, pulses and throes 
Of gladness in the air — while many, who 
Had died in mutual arms devout and true 
Sprang to each other madly ; and the rest 
Felt a high certainty of being blest. 
They gazed upon Endymion. Enchantment 
Grew drurdien, and woulil have its head and beni. 
Delicious .symphonies, like airy flowers. 
Budded, and swell'd, and, full-blown, shed full show- 
ers 
Of light, soft, unseen leaves of sounds divine 
The two deliverers tasted a pure wine 
Of happiness, from fairy-press oozed out. 
Speechless they eyed each other, ond about 
The fair assembly wander'd to and fro. 
Distracted with the richest overflow 
Of joy that ever pour'd from heaven. 

" A way ' 

Shouted the new-born god ; " Follow, and pay 
Our piety to Neptuntis supreme!" — 
Theti Scylla, blushing sweetly from her dream, 
555 



24 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



They led on first, bent to her meek surprise, 
Through portal columns of a giant size 
Into the vaulted, boundless emerald. 
Joyous all follovv'd, as the leader call'd, 
Down marble steps ; pouring as easily 
As hour-glass sand, — and fast, as you might see 
Swallows obeying the south summer's call. 
Or swans upon a gentle waterfall. 

Thus w'ent that beautiful multitude, not far. 
Ere from among some rocks of glittering spar, 
Just within ken, ihey saw descending thick 
Another multitude. Whereat more quick 
Moved either host. On a wide sand they met. 
And of those numbers every eye was wet; 
For each their old love found. A murmuring rose, 
Like what was never heard in all the throes 
Of wind and waters: 'tis past human wit 
To tell ; 'tis dizziness to think of it. 

This mighty consummation made, the host 
Moved on for many a league ; and gain'd, and lost 
Huge sea-marks; vanward sweUing in array. 
And from the rear diminishing away, — 
Till a faint dawn surprised them. Glaucus cried, 
" Behold ! behold, the palace of his pride ! 
God Neptune's palace ! " With noise increased, 
They shoulder'd on towards that brightening east. 
At every onward step proud domes arose 
In prospect, — diamond gleams and golden glows 
Of amber 'gainst their faces levelling. 
Joyous, and many as the leaves in spring. 
Still onward ; slill the splendor gradual swell'd. 
Rich opal domes were seen, on high upheld 
By jasper pillars, letting through their shafts 
A blush of coral. Copious wonder-draughts 
Each gazer drank ; and deeper drank more near : 
For what poor mortals fragment up, as mere 
As marble was there lavish, to the vast 
Of one fair palace, that far far surpass'd, 
Even for common bulk, those olden three, 
Memphis, and Babylon, and Nineveh. 

As large, as bright, as color'd as the bow 
Of Iris, when unfading it doth show 
Beyond a silvery shower, was the arch 
Through which this Paphian army took its march, 
Into the outer courts of Neptune's state : 
Whence could be seen, direct, a golden gate. 
To which the leaders sped ; but not half raught 
Ere it burst open swift as fairy thought, 
And made those dazzled thousands veil their eyes 
Like callow eagles at the first sunrise. 
Soon with an eagle nativeness their gaze 
Ripe from hue-golden swoons took all the blaze, 
And then, behold ! large Neptune on his throne 
Of emerald deep : yet not exalt alone ; 
At his right hand stood winged Love, and on 
His left sat smiling. Beauty's paragon. 

Far as the mariner on highest mast 
Can see all round upon the calmed vast. 
So wide was Neptune's hall ; and as the blue 
Doth vault the waters, so the waters drew 
Their doming curtains, high, magnificent. 
Awed from the throne aloof; — and when storm-rent 



Disclosed the thunder-gloomings in Jove's air, 
But soothed as now, flash'd sudden everywhere 
Noi.seless, submarine cloudlets, glittering 
Death to a human eye : for there did spring 
From natural west, and east, and south, and north, 
A light as of four sunsets, blazing forth 
A gold-green zenith 'bove the Sea-God's head. 
Of lucid depth the floor, and far outspread 
As breezeless lake, on which the slim canoe 
Of feather'd Indian darts about, as through 
The delicatest air : air verily. 
But for the portraiture of clouds and sky: 
This palace floor breath-air, — but for the amaze 
Of deep-seen wonders motionless, — and blaze 
Of the dome pomp, reflected in extremes, 
Globing a golden sphere. 

They stood in dreams 
Till Triton blew his horn. The palace rang ; 
The Nereids danced ; the Syrens faintly sang ; 
And the great Sea-King bow'd his dripping head. 
Then Love took wing, and from his pinions shed 
On all the multitude a nectarous dew. 
The ooze-born Goddess beckoned and drew 
Fair Scylla and her guides to conference ; 
And when they reach'd the throned eminence 
She kist the sea-nymph's cheek, — who sat her dowp 
A toying with the doves. Then, — " Mighty crov^n • 
And sceptre of this kingdom ! " Venus said, 
" Thy vows were on a time to Nais paid : 
Behold ! " — Two copious tear-drops instant fell 
From the God's large eyes ; he smiled delectable, 
And over Glaucus held his blessing hands. — 
" Endymion ! Ah ! still wandering in the bands 
Of love ? Now this is cruel. Since the hour 
I met thee in earth's bosom, all my power 
Have I put forth to serve thee. What, not yet 
Escaped from dull mortality's harsh net? 
A little patience, youth ! 't will not be long, 
Or I am skilless quite : an idle tongue, 
A humid eye, and steps luxurious, 
Where these are new and strange, are ominous. 
Ay, I have seen these signs in one of heaven. 
When others were all blind ; and were I given 
To utter secrets, haply I might say 
Some pleasant words ; but Love will have his day. 
So wait awhile expectant. Pr'ythee soon. 
Even in the passing of thine honey-moon, \ 

Visit my Cytherea : thou wilt find 
Cupid well-natured, my Adonis kind ; 
And pray persuade with thee — Ah, I have done. 
All blisses be upon thee, my sweet son ! " — 
Thus the fair goddess : while Endymion 
Knelt to receive those accents halcyon. 

Meantime a glorious revelry began 
Before the Water-Monarch. Nectar ran 
In courteous fountains to all cups out-reach 'd , 
And plunder'd vines, teeming exhauslless, bleach'd 
New growth about each shell and pendent lyre ; 
The which, in entangling for their fire, 
Pull'd down fresh foliage and coverture 
For dainty toy. Cupid, empire-sure, 
Flutter'd and laugh'd, and oft-times through the throng 
Made a delighted way. Then dance, and song, 
And garlanding grew wild ; and pleasure reign'd. 
In harmless tendril they each other chain'd, 
556 



ENDYMION. 



And strove who should be smother'd deepest in 
Fresh crush of leaves. 



'tis a very sin 
For one so weak to venture his poor verse 
In such a place as this. O do not curse. 
High Muses ! let him hurry to the ending. 

All suddenly were silent. A soft blending 
Of dulcet instruments came charmingly ; 
And Liien a hymn. 

" King of the stormy sea ! 
Brother of Jove, and co-inheritor 
Of elements! Eternally before 
Thee tlie waves awful bow. Fast, stubborn rock, 
At lliy fcar'd trident shrinking, doth unlock 
Its deep foundations, hissing into foam. 
All mountain-rivers lost, in the wide home 
Of thy capacious bosom ever flow. 
Thou frownest, and old Eolus thy foe 
Skulks to his cavern, 'mid the gruff complaint 
Of all his rebel tempests. Dark clouds faint 
When, from ihy diadem, a silver gleam 
Slants over blue dominion. Thy bright team 
Gulfs in the morning light, and scuds along 
To bring thee nearer to that golden song 
Apollo singelh, while liis chariot 
Wails at the doors of Heaven. Thou art not 
For scenes like this : an empire stern hast thou ; 
And it hath furrow'd that large front : yet now, 
As newly come of heaven, dost thou sit 
To blend and interknit 
Subdued majesty with this glad time. 
O shell-borne King sublime I 
We lay our hearts before thee evermore — 
We sing, and we adore ! 

" Breathe softly, flutes ; 
Be tender of your strings, ye soothing lutes ; 
Nor be the trumpet heard ! O vain, O vain ! 
Not (lowers budding in an April rain, 
Nor breath of sleeping dove, nor river's flow, — 
' No, nor the Eolian twang of Love's own bow. 
Can mingle music fit for the soft ear 
Of goddess Cytherea ! 

Yet deign, white Queen of Beauty, thy fair eyes 
On our soul's sacrifice. 



j " Bright-wing'd Child ! 

I Who has anotiier care when thou hast smiled ? 

hLlnfortimates on eartli, we see at last 

I All death shadows, and glooms that overcast 

Our spirits, fann'd away by thy light pinions. 
lo sweetest essence ! sweetest of all minions! 
jGod of warm pulses, and dishevell'd hair, 

And panting bosoms bare ! 
t Dear unseen light in darkness ! erlipser 
' Of light in light ! delicious poisoner ! 

Thy venom'd gol)let will -ve quaff until 

We fill— we fill ! 

,\nd by thy Mother's lips " 

Was heard no more 
For clamor, when the golden palace-door 



Open'd again, and from without, in shone 
A new magnificence. On oozy throne 
Smooth-moving came Oceanus the old, 
To take a latest glimpse at his sheep-fold, 
Before he went into his quiet cave 
To muse for ever — Then a lucid wave, 
Scoop'd from its trembling sisters of mid-sea. 
Afloat, and pillowing up the majesty 
Of Doris, and the Egean seer, her spouse — 
Next, on a dolphin, clad in laurel boughs, 
Theban Amphion leaning on his lute : 
His fingers went acro.ss it — All were mute 
To gaze on Amphritite, queen of pearls, 
And Thetis pearly too. — 

The palace whirls 
Around giddy Endymion ; seeing he 
Was there far strayed from mortality. 
He could not bear it — shut his eyes in vain ; 
Imagination gave a dizzier pain. 
"01 shall die ! sweet Venus, be my stay ! 
Where is my lovely mistress ? Well-away ! 
I die — I hear her voice — I feel my wing — " 
At Neptune's feet he sank. A sudden ring 
Of Nereids were about him, in kind strife 
To usher back his .spirit into life : 
But still he slept. At la.st they intcnvorve 
Their cradling arms, and purposed to convey 
Towards a crystal bower far away. 

Lo ! while slow carried through the pitying crowd, 
To his inward senses these vsords spake aloud ; 
Written in starlight on the dark above : 
" Dearest Endymion ! my entire love ! 
How have I dwelt in fear of fate : 'tis done — 
Immortal bliss for me too hast thou won. 
Arise then! for the hen-dove sliall not hatch 
Her ready eggs, before I'll kissing snatch 
Thee into endless heaven. Awake! awake!" 

The youth at once arose : a placid lake 
Came quiet to his eyes ; and forest green, 
Cooler than all the wonder he had .seen, 
Lull'd with its simple song his fluttering breast. 
How happy once again in grassy nest ! 



BOOK IV. 



Mltse of my native land ! loftiest Muse ! 
O (irst-twrn on the niotuitains ! by the hues 
Of heaven on the spiritual air begot : 
Long didst thou sit alone in northern grot, 
While yet our England was a wolfish den; 
Before our forests heard the talk of men ; 
Before tlie first of Druids was a child; — 
Long didst thou sit amid our regions wild. 
Rapt in a deep prophetic solitude. 
There came an eastern voice of solemn mood : — 
Yet wast thou patient. Then sang forth the Nine, 
Apollo's garland : — yet didst thou divine 
Such home-bred glory, that they cried in vain, 
"Come hither, Sistjsr of the Island!" Plain 
Spake fair Ai^tMi^ and once more she spake 
A higher sumiliOTB: — still didst thou betake 
557 



26 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thee to ihy native hopes. O thou hast won 

A full accomplishment ! The thing is done, 

Which undone, these our latter days had risen 

On barren souls. Great Muse, thou know'stwhat prison, 

Of flesh and bone, curbs, and confines, and frets 

Our spirit's wings : despondency besets 

Our pillows ; and the fresh to-morrow morn 

Seems to give forth its light in very scorn 

Of our dull, uninspired, snail-paced lives. 

Long have I said. How happy he who shrives 

To thee ! But then I thought on poets gone. 

And could not pray : — nor can I now — so on 

I move to the end in lowliness of heart. 

" Ah, woe is me .' that I sliould fondly part 
From my dear native land ! Ah, foolish maid ! 
Glad was the hour, when, with thee, myriads bade 
Adieu to Ganges and their pleasant fields I 
To one so friendless the clear freshet yields 
A bitter coolness; the ripe grape is sour: 
Yet I would have, great gods ! but one short hour 
Of native air — let me but die at home." 

Endymion to heaven's airy dome 
Was offering up a hecatomb of vows. 
When these words reach'd him. Whereupon he bows 
His head through thorny-green entanglement 
Of underwood, and to the sound is bent. 
Anxious as hind towards her hidden fawn. 

" Is no one near to help me ? No fair dawn 
Of life from charitable voice ? No sweet saying 
To set my dull and sadden'd spirit playing? 
No hand to toy with mine ? No lips so sweet 
That I may worship tliem ? No eyelids meet 
To twinkle on my bosom ? No one dies 
Before me, till from these enslaving eyes 
Redemption sparkles ! — I am sad and lost." 

Thou, Carian lord, hadst better have been tost 
Into a whirlpool. Vanish into air, 
Warm mountaineer ! for canst thou only bear 
A woman's sigh alone and in distress ? 
See not her charms ! Is Phoebe passionless ? 
Phoebe is fairer far — O gaze no more : — 
Yet if thou vi'ilt behold all beauty's store, 
Behold her panting in the forest grass ! 
Do not those curls of glossy jet surpass 
For tenderness the arms so idly lain 
Amongst them? Feelest not a kindred pain, 
To see such lovely eyes in swimming search 
After some warm delight, that seems to perch 
Dove-like in the dim cell lying beyond 
Their upper lids ? — Hist ! 

" O for Hermes' wand, 
To touch this flower into human shape I 
That woodland Hyaciniluis could escape 
From his green prison, and here kneeling dovm 
Call me his queen, his second life's fair crown ! 
Ah me, how I could love I — My soul doth melt 
For the unhappy youth — Love ! I have felt 
So faint a kindness, such a meek surrender 
I'd what my own full thoughts had made too tender. 
That but i()r tears my life had fled away ! — 
^'e deaf and senseless minutes of the day. 



And thou, old forest, hold ye this for true, 
There is no lightning, no authentic dew 
But in the eye of love : there's not a sound, 
Melodious howsoever, can confound 
The heavens and earth in one to such a death 
As doth the voice of love : there 's not a breath 
Will mingle kindly with the meadow air. 
Till it has panted round, and stolen a share 
Of passion from the heart!" — 

Upon a bough 
He leant, wretched. He surely cannot now 
Thirst for another love : O impious. 
That he can even dream upon it thus ! — 
Thought he, "Why am 1 not as are the dead, 
Since to a woe like tiiis I have been led 
Through the dark earth, and through the wondrous sea? 
Goddess ! I love thee not the less : from thee 
By Juno's smile 1 turn not — no, no, no — 
VVhile the great watei-s are at ebb and flovi'.— ^ 
I have a triple soul ! O fond pretence — 
For both, for both my love is so immense, 
I feel my heart is cut in twain for them." 

And so he groan'd, as one by beauty slain. 
The lady's heart beat quick, and he could see 
Her gentle bosom heave tumultuously. 
He sprang from his green covert : there she lay, 
Sweet as a musk-rose upon new-made hay ; 
With all her limbs on tremble, and her eyes 
Shut softly up alive. To speak he tries: 
" Fair damsel, pity me ! forgive me that I 
Thus violate thy bower's sanctity ! 

pardon me, for I am full of grief — 

Grief born of thee, young angel ! fairest thief! 
Who stolen hast away the wings wherewith 

1 was to top the heavens. Dear maid, sith 
Thou art my executioner, and I feel 
Loving and hatred, misery and weal. 

Will in a few .short hours be nothing to me, 
And all my story that much passion slew me: 
Do smile upon the evening of my days : 
And, for my tortured brain begins to craze. 
Be thou my nurse; and let me understand 
How dying I shall kiss thy lily hand. — 
Dost weep for me ? Then should I be content. 
Scovil on, ye fates ! until the firmament 
Out-blackens Erebus, and the full-cavern'd earth 
Crumbles into itself By the cloud girth 
Of Jove, those tears have given me a thirst 
To meet oblivion." — As her heart would burst 
The maiden sobb'd awhile, and then replied : 
" Why must such desolation betide 
As that thou speakest of? Are not these green nooks 
Empty of all misfortune ? Do the brooks 
Utter a gorgon voice ? Does yonder thrush. 
Schooling its half-fledged little ones to bi^sh 
About the dewy forest, whisper tales ? — 
Speak not of grief, young stranger, or cold snails 
Will slime the rose to-night. Though if thou wilt, 
Methinks 't would be a guilt — a very guilt — 
Not to companion thee, and sigh away 
The light— the dusk — the dark — till break of day!' 
" Dear lady," said Endymion, " 'tis past • 
I love thee ! and my days can never last. 
That I may pass in patience, still speak : 
Let me have music dying, and I seek 
558 



ENDYMION. 



27 



No more delight — I bid adieu to all. 

Didst thou not after other climates call, 

And murmur about Indian streams?" — Then she, 

Sitting beneath the midmost forest tree, 

For pity sang this roundelay 

" O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
The natural hue of health from vermeil lips? — 

To give maiden blushes 

To the white rose bushes ? 
Or is it thy dewy hand the daisy tips ? 

" O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
The lustrous passion from a falcon-eye ? — 

To give the glow-worm light ? 

Or, on a moonless night, 
To tinge, on syren shores, the salt sea-spry ? 

" O Sorrow ! 

AVhy dost borrow 
The mellow ditties from a mourmng tongue ? — 

To give at evening pale 

Unto the nightingale, 
That thou mayst listen the cold dews among? 

" O Sorrow ! 

Why dost borrow 
Heart's lightness from the merriment of May ? — 

A lover would not tread 

A cowslip on the head. 
Though he should dance from eve till peep of day— 

Nor any drooping flower 

Held sacred for thy bovver. 
Wherever he may sport himself and play. 

"To Sorrow 

I bade good morrow, 
Anvl thought to leave her far away behind ; 

But cheerly, cheerly. 

She loves me dearly ; 
She is so constant to me, and so kind : 

I would deceive her. 

And so leave her. 
But ah ! she is so constant and so kind. 



" Beneath my palm-trees, by the river-side, 
i 1 sat a-vveeping : in the whole world wide 
\ There was no one to ask me why I wept, — 
And so I kept 
Brimming ihe water-lily cups with tears 
Cold as my feare. 

•■ Beneath my palm-trees, by the river-side, 
I sat a-weeping : \\ hat enamor'd bride, 
Cheated by shadowy wooer from the clouds, 
But hides and shrouds 
j Beneath dark palm-trees by a river-side ? 

"And as I sat, over the light-blue hills 
There came a noise of revellers : the rills 
Into the wide stream came of purple hue — 

'T was Bacchus and his crew ! 
The earnest trumpet spn!;e, and silver thrills 
41 3L 



From kissing cj'mbals made a merry din — 

'Twas Bacchus and his kin! 
Like to a moving vintage down tlicy came, 
Crown'd wilh green leaves, and faces all on flame ; 
All madly dancing through tlie pleasant valley^ 

To scare thee, Melanciioly ! 
O then, O then, thou wast a simple name I 
And I forgot thee, as tlie berried holly 
By shepherds is forgotten, when in June, 
Tall chestnuts keep away the sun and moon : — 

1 rush'd into tlie folly ! 

" Within his car, aloft, young Bacchus stood. 
Trifling his ivy-dart, in dancing mood, 

With sidelong laughing ; 
And little rills of crimson wine imbrued 
His plump white arms, and shoulders, enough white 

For \'enus' pearly bite ; 
And near him rode Silcuus on his ass, 
Pelted with flowers as he on did pass 

Tipsily quailing. 

" Whence came yc, merry Damsels! whence came ye, 
So many, and so many, and such glee ? 
Why have ye left your bovvers desolate. 

Your lutes, and gentler fate ? 
' We follow Bacchus ! Bacchus on the wing, 

A conquering! 
Bacchus, young Bacchus ! good or ill betide, 
We dance before him thorough kingdoms wide : — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 

To our wild minstrelsy ! ' 

" Whence came ye, jolly Satyrs ! whence came ye, 

So many, and so many, and such glee ? 

Why have ye left your forest haunts, why left 

Your nuts in oak-tree cleft ? — 
' For wine, for wine we left our kernel tree : 
For wine we left our heath, and yellow brooms, 

And cold mushrooms ; 
For wine we follow Bacchus through the earth ; 
Great god of breatliless cups and chirping mirth ! — 
Come hither, lady fair, and joined be 
To our mad minstrelsy ! ' 

"Over wide streams and mountains great wt vrent, 
And, save when Bacchus kept his ivy tent. 
Onward the tiger and the leopard pants. 

With Asian elephants : 
Onward these myriads — with song and dance, 
With zebras striped, and sleek Arabians' prance, 
Web-footed alligators, crocodiles. 
Bearing upon their scaly backs, in files. 
Plump infant laughters mimicking the coil 
Of seamen, and stout galley-rowers' toil : 
VV'ith toying oars and silken sails they glide 

IVor care for wind and tide. 

" Mounted on panthers' furs and lions' manes. 
From rear to van they scour about the plain:), 
A three days' journey in a moment done ; 
And always, at the rising of the sun, 
About the wilds they hunt with spear and honi 
On spleenful unicorn. 

" I saw Osirian Egypt kneel adown 

Before the vine-wreath crown. 
5.^9 



28 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



1 saw parch'd Abyssinia rouse and sing 

To llie silver cymbals' ring ! 
I saw the wliclming vintage hotly pierce 

Old Tartary the fierce I 
The kings of Ind their jewel-sceptres vail, 
And from their treasures scatter pearled hail ; 
Great Brahma from his rnystic heaven groans, 

And all his priesthood moans, 
Before young Bacchus' eye-wink turning pale. 
Into these regions came I, fiillowing him, 
Sick-hearted, weary — so I took a whim 
To slray away into these forests drear, 

Alone, wiihoul a peer : 
And I have told ihee all thou mayest hear. 

" Young stranger ! 

I 've been a ranger 
In search of pleasure throughout every clime ; 

Alas! 'tis not for me : 

Bewitch'd I sure must be. 
To lose in grieving all my maiden prime. 

" Come then, Sorrow, 

Sweetest Sorrow ! 
Like an own babe I nurse thee on my breast : 

I thought to leave thee, 

And deceive thee. 
But now of all the world I love thee best. 

" There is not one. 

No, no, not one 
But thee to comfort a poor lonely maid ; 

Thou art her mother. 

And her brother. 
Her playmate, and her wooer in the shade." 

O what a sight she gave in finishing. 
And look, quite dead to every worldly thing! 
Endymion could not speak, but gazed on her : 
And listen'd to the wind that now did stir 
About the crisped oaks full drearily. 
Yet with as sweet a softness as might be 
Remember'd from its velvet summer song. 
At last he said : " Poor lady, how thus long 
Have I been able to endure that voice ? 
Fair Melody! kind Syren! I've no choice; 
I must be ttty sad servant evermore : 
I cannot choose but kneel here and adore. 
Alas, I must not think — by Phoebe, no ! 
Let me not think, soft Angel ! shall it be so ? 
Say, beautifullest, shall I never think ? 

thou couldst foster me beyond the brink 
Of recollection ! make my watchful «are 
(Jlose up its bloodshot eyes, nor see despair ! 
Do gently murder half my soul, and I 
Shall feel the other half so utterly ! — 

1 'm giddy at that cheek so fair and smooth ; 
O let it blush so ever : let it soothe 

My madness ! let it mantle rosy-warm 

With the tinge of love, panting in safe alarm. 

This cannot be thy hand, and yet it is; 

And this is sure thine other sofiUiig — this 

Thine own fiiir bosom, and I am so near! 

VVilt fall asleep? O let me sip that tear! 

And whisper one sweet word that I may know 

This is the world— sweet dewy blossom!" — Woe! 



Woe! woe to that Endymion! Where is he? 
Even these words went echoing dismally 
Through the wide forest — a most fearful tone, 
Like one repenting in his latest moan ; 
And while it died away a shade pass'd by, 
As of a thunder-cloud. When arrows fly 
Through the thick branches, poor ring-doves sleek 

forth 
Their timid necks and tremble ; so these both 
Leant to each other trembling, and sat so 
Waiting for some destruction — when lo ! 
Foot-feather'd Mercury appear'd sublime 
Beyond the tall tree-lops ; and in less time 
Than shoots the slanted hail-slorm, down he dropt 
Towards the ground ; but rested not, nor slopt 
One moment from his home : only the sward 
He with his wand light louch'd, and heavenward 
Swifter than sight was gone — even before 
The teeming earth a sudden witness bore 
Of his swift magic. Diving swans appear 
Above the crystal circlings while aiid clear ; 
And catch the cheated eye in wild surprise. 
How they can dive in sight and unseen rise — 
So from the turf outsprang two steeds jet-black. 
Each with large dark-blue wings upon his back. 
The youth of Caria placed the lovely dame 
On one, and felt himself in spleen to tame 
The other's fierceness. Through the air they flew, 
High as the eagles. Like two drops of dew 
Exhaled to Phoebus' lips, away they are gone, 
Far from the earth away — unseen, alone. 
Among cool clouds and winds, but that the fr«!e, 
The buoyant life of song can floating be 
Above their heads, and follow them untired. 
Muse of my native land ! am I inspired ? 
This is the giddy air, and I must spread 
Wide pinions to keep here ; nor do I dread 
Or height, or depth, or width, or any chance 
Precipitous : I have beneath my glance 
Those towering horses and their mournful freight. 
Could I thus sail, and see, and thus await 
Fearless for power of thought, without thine aid? — 
There is a sleepy dusk, an odorous shade 
From some approaching wonder, and behold 
Those winged steeds, with snorting nostrils boW 
SnufT at its faint extreme, and seem to tire, 
Dying to embers lirom their native fire ! 



There curl'd a purple mist around them ; soon. 
It seem'd as when around the pale new moon 
Sad Zephyr droops the clouds like weeping willow: 
'Twas Sleep slow journeying with head on pillow 
For the first time, since he came nigh dead-born 
From the old womb of night, his cave forlorn 
Had he left more forlorn ; for the first time. 
He felt aloof the day and morning's prime — 
Because into his depth Cimmerian 
There came a dream, showing how a young man. 
Ere a lean bat could plump its wintery skin, 
Would at high Jove's empyreal footstool win 
An immortality, and Iww espouse 
Jove's daughter, and be reckon'd of his house. 
Now was he slumbering towards heaven's gate, 
That he might at the threshold one hour wait 
To hear the marriage melodies, and then 
Sink downward to his dusky cave again. 
500 



ENDYMION. 



29 



His litter of smooth semilucent mist, 
Diversely tinged with n)se and ametliyst, 
Puzzled those eyes that for the centre sought ; 
And scarcely for one moment could be caught 
His sluggish form reposing motionless. 
Those two on winged steeds, with all the stress 
Of vision search 'd for him, as one would look 
Athwart the sallows of a river nook 
To catch a glance at silver-throated eels, — 
Or from old Skiddaw's top, when fog conceals 
His rugged forehead in a mantle pale. 
With an eye-guess towards some pleasant vale, 
Descry a favorite hamlet faint and far. 

These raven horses, though they foster'd are 
Of earth's splenetic fire, dully drop 
Their fuU-vein'd ears, nostrils blood wide, and stop; 
Upon the spiritless mist have they outspread 
Their ample feathers, are in slumber dead, — 
And on those pinions, level in mid-air, 
Endymion sleepeth and the lady fair. 
Slowly they sail, slowly as icy isle 
Upon a calm sea drifting: and meanwhile 
The mournful wanderer dreams. Behold ! he walks 
On heaven's pavement ; brotherly he talks 
To divine powers : from his hand full fain 
Juno's proud birds are pecking pearly grain : 
He tries the nerve of Phoebus' golden bow, 
And asketh where the golden apples grow : 
Upon his arm he braces Pallas' shield, 
And strives in vain to unsettle and wield 
A Jovian thunderbolt : arch Hebe brings 
A full-brimm'd goblet, dances lightly, sings 
And tantalizes long; at last he drinks. 
And lost in pleasure at her feet he sinks. 
Touching with dazzled lips her starlight hand, 
He blows a bugle, — an ethereal band 
Are visible above : the Seasons four, — 
Green-kirtled Spring, flush Summer, golden store 
In Autumn's sickle, Winter frosty hoar. 
Join dance with shadowy Hours; while still the blast, 
In swells unmitigated, still doth last 
To sway their floating morris. " Whose is this ? 
Whose bugle ?" he inquires: they smile — "O Dis! 
Why is this mortal here ? Dost thou not know 
Its mistress' lips ? Not thou ? — 'Tis Dian's : lo ! 
She rises crescented!" He looks, 'tis she. 
His very goddess: good-bye earlii, and sea. 
And air, and pains, and care, and sufTering ; 
Good-bye to all but love ! Then doth he spring 
Towards her, and awakes — and, strange, o'erhead, 
Of those same fragrant exhalations bred. 
Beheld awake his very dream : the Gods 
Stood smiling; merry Hebe laughs and nods; 
And Pho3be bends towards him crescented. 
O state perplexing ! On the pinion bed, 
Too well awake, he feels the panting side 
Of his delicious lady. He who died 
For soaring loo audacious in the sun, 
Where that same treacherous wax began to ruii, 
Felt not more tongue-tied than Endymion. 
His heart leapt up as to its rightful throne. 
To thai fair-shadow'd passion pulsed its way — 
Ah, what perplexity! Ah, well-a-day ! 
So fond, so beauteous was his bed-fellow, 
He could not help but kiss her : then he grew 



Awliile forgetful of all beauty save 

Young Plucbe's, golden-hair'd ; and so 'gan crave 

Forgiveness: yet he turn'd once more to look 

At the sweet sleeper, — all his soul was shook, — 

She press'd his hand in slumber; so once more 

He could not help but kiss her and adore. 

At this the shadow wept, melting away. 

The Laimian started up : " Bright goddess, sldv * 

Search my most hidden breast! By truth's own tongue, 

I have no dtedal heart: why is it wrung 

To desperation ? Is there naught for me, 

Upon the bourn of bliss, but misery?" 



These words awoke the stranger oi dark tresses: 
Her dawning love-look rapt Endymion blesses 
With 'havior soft. Sleep yawn'd from undcrneatli. 
" Thou swan of Ganges, let us no lUore breathe 
This murky phantasm! thou contented scem'st 
Pillow'd in lovely idleness, nor dream'st 
What horrors may disc()nifi)rt thee and me. 
Ah, shouldst thou die from my heart-treachery !— 
Yet did she merely weep — her gentle soul 
Hath no revenge in it ; as it is whole 
In tenderness, would I were whole in love ! 
Can I prize thee, fair maid, all price above, 
Even when I feel as true as innocence ? 
I do, I do. — What is this soul then >. Whence 
Came it ? It does not seem my own, and I 
Have no self-passion or ideniiiy. 
Some fearful end must be ; where, where is it ? 
By Nemesis ! I see my spirit flit 
Alone about the dark — Forgive me, sweet! 
Shall we away?" He roused the steeds; they beat 
Their wings chivalrous into the clear air. 
Leaving old Sleep within his vapory lair. 

The good-night blush of eve was waning slow. 
And Vesper, risen star, began to throe 
In the dusk heavens silvery, when they 
Thus sprang direct towards the Galaxy. 
Nor did speed hinder converse soft and strange — 
Eternal oaths and vows they interchange. 
In such wise, in such temper, so ah)of 
Up in the winds, beneath a starry roof. 
So witless of their doom, that verily 
'Tis well-nigh past man's search their hearts to see ; 
Whether they wept, or laugh'd, or grieved, or toy'd — 
Most like with joy gone mad, with sorrow cloy'd. 



Full facing their swift flight, from clxin streak 
The moon put forth a lillle diamond peak, 
No bigger than an unobserved star. 
Or tiny point of fairy scimitar ; 
Bright signal that she only stoop'd to tie 
Her silver sandals, ere deliciously 
She lx)w'd into the heavens her timid head. 
Slowly she rose, as though she would have fleJ 
While to his lady meek the Carian turn'd. 
To mark if her dark eyes had yet discern'd 
This beauty in its birth — Desjiair! despair! 
He saw her body fading gaunt and spare 
In the cold moonshine. Straight he seized her wrist; 
It melted from his grasp; her hand he kiss'd. 
And, horror! kiss'd his own — he was alone. 
5G1 



30 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Her steed a little higher soar'd, and then 
Dropt havvkwise to the earth. 

There lies a den, 
Beyond the seeming confines of the space 
Made for the soul to wander in and trace 
Its own existence, of remotest glooms. 
Dark regions are around it, where the tombs 
Of buried griefs the spirit sees, but scarce 
One hour doth linger weeping, for the pierce 
Of new-born woe it feels more inly smart : 
And in these regions many a venom'd dart 
At random flies ; they are the proper home 
Of every ill : the man is yet to come 
Who halh not journey'd in this native hell. 
But few have ever felt Iiow calm and w'ell 
Sleep may be had in that deep den of all. 
There anguish does not sting, nor pleasure pall ; 
Woe-hurricanes beat ever at the gate, 
Yet all is still within and desolate. 
Beset with plainful gusts, within ye hear 
No sourid so loud as when on curtain'd bier 
The death-watch tick is stifled. Enter none 
Who sirive therefor : on the sudden it is won. 
Just when the sufferer begins to burn, 
Then it is free to him; and from an urn. 
Still fed by melting ice, he takes a draught — 
Young Semele such richness never quaft 
In her maternal longing. Happy gloom ! 
Dark Paradise ! where pale becomes the bloom 
Of health by due ; where silence dreariest 
Is most articulate; where hopes infest; 
Where those eyes are the brightest far that keep 
Their lids shut longest in a dreamless sleep. 
O happy spirit-home ! O wondrous soul ! 
Pregnant with such a den to save the whole 
In thine own depth. Hail, gentle Carian! 
For, never since thy griefs and woes began, 
Hast thou felt so content : a grievous feud 
Hath led thee to this Cave of Quietude. 
Aye, his luU'd soul was there, although upborne 
With dangerous speed : and so he did not mourn 
Because he knew not wliither he was going. 
So happy was he, not the aerial blowing 
Of trumpets at clear parley from the east 
Could rouse from that fine relish, that high feast. 
They stung the feather'd horse ; with fierce alarm 
He llapp'd towards the sound. Alas ! no charm 
Could lift Endymion's head, or he had view'd 
A skyey mask, a pinion'd multitude, — 
And silvery was its p.nssing: voices sweet 
AVarbling the while as if to lull and greet 
The wanderer in his path. Thus warbled they, 
Wliile past the vision went in bright array. 

" Who, who from Dian's feast would be away ? 
For all the golden bowers of the day 
Are empty left ? Who, who away would be 
From Cynthia's wedding and festivity ? 
Not Hesperus: lo ! npon his silver wings 
He leans away for highest heaven and sings, 
Snapping his lucid fingers merrily ! — 
Ah, Zephyrus ! art here, and Flora too ! 
Ye tender bibbers of the rain and dew. 
Young playmates of the rose and daflbdil, 
Re careful, ere ye enter in, to fill 



Your baskets high 
With fennel green, and balm, and golden pines, 
Savory, latter-mint, and columbines. 
Cool parsley, basil sweet, and sunny thyme ; 
Yea, every flower and leaf of every clime, 
All gather'd in the dewy morning : hie 

A way ! fly, fly ! — 
Crystalline brother of the belt of heaven, 
Aquarius ! to whom king Jove has given 
Two liquid pulse streams 'stead of feather'd wings, 
Two fan-like fountains, — thine illuminings 

For Dian play : 
Dissolve the frozen purity of air ; 
Let thy white shouldere silvery and bare 
Show cold through watery pinions ; make more bright 
The Star-Queen's crescent on her marriage night : 

Haste, haste away ! 
Castor has tamed the planet Lion, see ! 
And of the Bear has Pollux mastery : 
A tliird is in tlie race ! who is the third. 
Speeding away swift as the eagle bird ? 

The ramping Centaur! 
The Lion's mane 's on end : the Bear how fierce ! 
The Centaur's arrow ready seems to pierce 
Some enemy : far forth his bow is bent 
Into the blue of heaven. He '11 be shent, 

Pale unrclentor, 
Wlien he shall hear the wedding lutes a-playing. — 
Andromeda ! sweet woman ! why delaying 
So timidly among the stars? come hither! 
Join this bright throng, and nimbly follow whither 

They all are going. 
Danas's Son, before Jove newly bow'd. 
Has wept for thee, calling to Jove aloud. 
Thee, gentle lady, did he disenthral : 
Ye shall for ever live and love, for all 

Thy tears are flowing. — 
By Daphne's fright, behold Apollo ! — " 

More 
Endymion heard not: down his steed him bore, 
Prone to the green head of a misty hill. 

His first touch of the earth went nigh to kill. 
" Alas!" said he, " were I but always borne 
Through dangerous winds, had but my footsteps worn 
A path in hell, for ever would I bless 
Horrors which nourish an uneasiness 
For my own sullen conquering ; to him 
Who lives beyond earth's boundary, grief is dim. 
Sorrow is but a shadow: now I see 
The grass; I feel the solid ground — Ah, me! 
It is thy voice — divinest ! Where ? — who ? who 
Left thee so quiet on this bed of dew ? 
Behold upon this happy earth we are ; 
Let us aye love each other ; let us fare 
On forest-fruits, and never, never go 
Among the abodes of mortals here below, 
Or be by phantoms duped. O destiny! 
Into a labyrinth now my soul would fly. 
But with lliy beauty will I deaden it. 
Where didst thou melt too ? By thee will I sit 
For ever : let our fale slop here — a kid 
I on this spot will ofler : Pan will bid 
Us live in peace, in love and peace among 
His forest wildernesses. I have clung 
562 



ENDYMION. 



31 



To nothing, loved a nothing, nothing seen 

Or felt but a great dream ! Oh, I have been 

Presumptuous against love, against the sky, 

Against all elen'ents, against the tie 

or mortals each to each, against the blooms 

Of flowers, rush of rivers, and the tomlis 

Of heroes gone ! Against liis proper glory 

Has my own soul conspired : so my story 

Will I to children utter, and repent. 

There never lived a mortal man, who bent 

His appetite beyond his natural sphere, 

But starved and died. My sweetest Indian, here, 

Here will I kneel, for thou redeemed hast 

My life from too thin breathing : gone and past 

Are cloudy phantasms. Caverns lone, farewell ! 

And air of visions, and the monstrous swell 

Of visionary seas ! No, never more 

Shall airy voices cheat me to the shore 

Of tangled wonder, breathless and aghast. 

Adieu, my daintiest Dream I although so vast 

My love is still for thee. The hour may come 

When we shall meet in pure elysium. 

On earth I may not love thee ; and therefore 

Doves will I offer up, and sweetest store 

All through the teeming year : so thou wilt shine, 

On me, and on this damsel fair of mine. 

And bless our simple lives. My Indian bliss ! 

My river-lily bud ! one human kiss ! 

One sigh of real breath — one gentle squeeze, 

Warm as a dove's nest among summer trees. 

And warm with dews that ooze from living blood ! 

Whither didst melt ? Ah, what of that ? — all good 

We'll talk about — no more of dreaming. — Now, 

Where shall our dwelling be ? Under the brow 

Of some steep mossy hill, where ivy dun 

Would hide us up, although spring leaves were none 

And where dark yew-trees, as we rustle through, 

Will drop their scarlet-berry cups of dew ? 

thou wouldst joy to live in such a place ! 
Dusk for our loves, yet light enough to grace 
Those gentle limbs on mossy bed rechned : 
For by one step the blue sky shouldst thou find, 
And by another, in deep dell below, 

See, through the trees, a little river go 

All in its mid-day gold and glimmering. 

Honey from out the gnarled hive I'll bring, 

And apples, wan with sweetness, gather thee, — 

Cresses that grow where no man may them see, 

And sorrel untorn by the dew-elaw'd stag : 

Pipes wll I fashion of the syrinx flag. 

That thou mayst always know whither I roam, 

When it shall plea.se thee in our quiet home 

To listen and think of love. Still let me speak; 

Still let me dive into the joy I seek, — 

For yet the past dolh prison me. The rill, 

Thou haply mayst delight in, will I fdl 

With fairy fishes from the mountain tarn. 

And tho\i shalt feed them from the squirrel's bam. 

Its bottom will I strew with amber shells. 

And pebbles blue from deep enchanted wells. 

Its sides I'll plant with dew-sweet eglantine, 

And honeysuckles full of clear bee-wine. 

1 will entice this crystal rill to trace 
Love's silver name upon the meadow's face. 
I '11 kneel to Vesta, for a flame of fire ; 
And to god Phoebus, for a golden lyre ; 

To Empress Dian, for a hunting-spear ; 
To Vesper, for a taper silver-clear, 
41* 



That I may see thy beauty through the night ; 
To Flora, and a nightingale shall light 
Tame on thy finger; to the River-gods, 
And they shall bring thee taper fishing-rods 
Of gold, and lines of Naiad's long bright tress. 
Heaven shield ihee for thine utter loveliness I 
Thy mossy footstool shall the altar be 
'Fore which I'll bend, bending, dear love, to thee: 
Those lips shall be my Delphos, and shall speak 
Laws to my footsteps, color t" my cheek. 
Trembling or stedfastness to :h;s same voice, 
And of three sweetest pleasurings the choice : 
And that affectionate light, those diamond things, 
Those eyes, those passions, those supreme pearl 

springs. 
Shall be my grief, or twinkle me to pleasure. 
Say, is not bliss within our perfect seizuie ? 
O that I could not doubt ? " 



The mountaineer 
Thus strove by fancies vain and crude to clear 
His brier'd path to some tranquillity. 
It gave bright gladness to his lady's eye. 
And yet the tears she wept were tears of sorrow; 
Answering thus, just as the golden morrow 
Beam'd upward from the valleys of the east : 
" O that the flutter of this heart had ceased. 
Or the sweet name of love had pass'tl away ! 
Young feather'd tyrant ! by a swift decay 
Wilt thou devote this body to the earth : 
And I do thirdv that at my very birth 
I lisp'd thy blooming titles inwardly : 
For at the first, first dawn and thought of thee. 
With uplift hands I blest the stars of heaven. 
Art thou not cruel ? Ever have I striven 
To think thee kind, but ah, it will not do ! 
When yet a child, I heard that kisses drew 
Favor from thee, and so I kisses gave 
To the void air, bidding them find out love : 
But when I came to feel how far above 
All fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood 
All earthly pleasure, all imagined good, 
Was the warm tremble of a devout kiss, - 
Even then, that moment, at the thought of thi.s. 
Fainting I fell inlo a bed of flowers. 
And languish'd there three days. Ye milder jrowera 
Am I not cruelly wrong'd ? Believe, believe 
Me, dear Endymion, were I to weave 
With my own fiincics garlands of sweet liie. 
Thou shouldst be one of all. Ah, bitter strile! 
I may not be thy love : I am forbidden — 
Indeed I am — thwarted, affrighted, chidden 
By things I trembled at, and gorgon wraih. 
Twice hast thou ask'd whither I went : henccforrfi 
Ask me no more! I may not uller it. 
Nor may I be thy love. We might commit 
Ourselves at once to vengeance; we might die, 
We might embrace and die : voluptuous thought 
Enlarge not to my hunger, or 1 'm caught 
In irammeLi of perverse deliciousnoss. 
No. no, that shall not be: thee will 1 bless, 
And bid a long adieu." 



No word retum'd 



The Carian 
both lovelorn, silent, wan, 
563 



'S2 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Into the valleys green together went. 
Far wandering they were perforce content 
To sit beneath a fair, lone beechen tree ; 
Nor at each other gazed, but heavily 
Pored on its hazel cirque of shedded leaves. 

Endymion ! unhappy ! it nigh grieves 
Me to behold thee thus in last extreme : 
Enskied ere this, but truly that I deem 
Truth the best music in a firet-born song. 
Thy lute-voiced brother will I sing ere long, 
And thou shall aid — hast thou not aided me ? 
Yes, moonlight Emperor ! felicity 
Has been thy meed for many thousand years ; 
Yet often have I, on the brink of teare, 
Mourn 'd as if yet thou wert a forester ; — 
Forgetting the old tale. 

He did not stir 
His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse 
Of joy he might have felt. The spirit culls 
Unfaded amaranth, when wild it strays 
Through tlie old garden-ground of boyish days. 
A little onward ran the very stream 
By which he took his first soft poppy dream ; 
And on the very bark 'gainst which he leant 
A crescent he had carved, and round it spent 
His skill in little stars. The teeming tree 
Had swoll'n and green'd the pious charactery, 
But not ta'en out. Why, there was not a slope 
Up which he had not fear'd the antelope ; 
And not a tree, beneath whose rooty shade 
He had not with his tamed leopards play'd ; 
]Vor could an arrow light, or javelin. 
Fly in the air where his had never been — 
And yet he knew it not. 

O treachery ! 
Why does his lady smile, pleasing her eye 
Witii all his sorrowing ? He sees her not. 
But who so stares on him ? His sister, sure ! 
Peona of the woods ! Can she endure — 
Impossible — how dearly they embrace ! 
His lady smiles ; delight is in her face ; 
It is no treachery. 

" Dear brother mine ! 
Endymion, weep not so I Why shouldst thou pine 
Wlien all great Latmos so exalt will be ? 
Thank the great gods, and look not bitterly ; 
And speak not one pale word, and sigh no more. 
Sure I will not believe thou hast such store 
Of grief, to last thee to my kiss again. 
Thou surely canst not bear a mind in pain. 
Come hand in hand with one so beautiful. 
Be happy both of you ! for I will pull 
The flowers of autumn for your coronals. 
Pan's holy priest for young Endymion calls ; 
And when he is restored, thou, fairest dame, 
Shalt be our queen. Now, is it not a shame 
To see ye thus, — not veiy, very sad ? 
Perhaps ye are too happy to be glad : 
O feel as if it were a common day ; 
Free-voiced as one who never was away. 



No tongue shall ask, whence come ye ? but ye shall 
Be gods of your own rest imperial. 
Not even I, for one whole month, will pry 
Into the hours that have pass'd us by, 
Since in my arbor I did sing to thee. 
O Hermes ! on this very night will be 
A hymning up to Cynthia, queen of light; 
For the soothsayers old saw yesternight 
Good visions in the air, — whence will befall. 
As say these sages, health perpetual 
To shepherds and their flocks ; and furthermore. 
In Dian's face they read the gentle lore : 
Therefore for her these vesper-carols are. 
Our friends will all be there from nigh and far. 
Many upon thy death have ditties made ; 
And many, even now, their foreheads shade 
With cypress, on a day of sacrifice. 
New singing for our maids shalt thou devise. 
And pluck the sorrow from our huntsmen's brows. 
Tell me, my lady-queen, how to espouse 
This wayward brother to his rightful joys ! 
His eyes are on thee bent, as thou didst poise 
His fate most goddess-like. Help me, I pray, 
To lure — Endymion, dear brother, say - 
What ails thee ?" He could bear no more, and so 
Bent his soul fiercely like a spiritual bow. 
And twang'd it inwardly, and calmly said : 
" I would have thee my only friend, sweet maid ! 
My only visitor ! not ignorant though. 
That those deceptions which for pleasure go 
'Mong men, are pleasures real as real may be : 
But there are higlier ones I may not see, 
If impiously an earthly realm I take. 
Since I saw thee, I have been wide awake 
Night after night, and day by day, until 
Of the empyrean I have drunk my fill. 
Let it content thee. Sister, seeing me 
More happy than betides mortality. 
A hermit young, I '11 live in mossy cave, 
Where thou alone shalt come to me, and lave 
Thy spirit in the wonders I shall tell. 
Through me the shepherd realm shall prosper well 
For to thy tongue will I all health confide. 
And, for my sake, let this young maid abide 
With thee as a dear sister. Tliou alone, 
Peona, mayst return to me. I own 
This may sound strangely : but when, dearest girl, 
Thou seest it f()r my happiness, no pearl 
Will trespass down those cheeks. Companion fair ' 
Wilt be content to dwell with her, to share 
This sister's love with me ?" Like one resign'd 
And bent by circumstances, and thereby blind 
In self-commitment, thus that meek unknown : 
" Ay, but a buzzing by my ears has flown. 
Of jubilee to Dian : — truth I heard ! 
Well then, I see there is no little bird. 
Tender .soever, but is Jove's own care. 
Long have I sought for rest, and, unaware, 
Behold 1 find it I so exalted loo ! 
So after my own heart ! I knew, I knew 
There was a place untenanted in it ; 
In that same void white Chastity shall sit, 
And monitor me nightly to lone slumber. 
With sanest lips I vow me to the number 
Of Dian's sisterhood ; and, kind lady. 
With thy good help, this very night shall see 
564 



ENDYMION. 



33 



My future days to her fane consecrate." 

As feels a dreamer what doth most create 
His own particular fright, so these three felt : 
Or like one, who, in after ages, knelt 
To Lucifer or Baal, when he 'd pine 
After a little sleep : or when in mine 
Far under-ground, a sleeper meets his friends 
Who know him not. Each diligently bends 
Tow'rds common thoughts and things for very fear ; 
Striving their ghastly malady to cheer, 
By thinking it a thing of yes and no. 
That housewives talk of But ihe spirit-blow 
Was struck, and all were dreamers. At the last 
Endymion said : " Are not our fates all cast ? 
Why stand we here ? Adieu, ye tender pair' 
Adieu.'" Whereat those maidens, with wild stare, 
Walk'd dizzily away. Pained and hot 
His eyes went after them, until they got 
Near to a cypress grove, whose deadly maw, 
In one swift moment, would what then he saw 
Ingulf for ever. " Stay !" he cried, " ah, slay ! 
Turn, damsels ! hist ! one word I have to say : 
Sweet Indian, I vvould see thee once again. 
It is a thing I dote on : so I *d fain, 
Peona, ye should hand in hand repair. 
Into those holy groves that silent are 
Behind great Dian's temple. I '11 be yon. 
At vesper's earliest twinkle — they are gone — 
But once, once, once again — " At this he press'd 
His hands against his face, and then did rest 
His head upon a mossy hillock green. 
And so remain'd as he a corpse had been 
All the long day ; save when he scantly lifted 
His eyes abroad, to see how shadows shifted 
With the slow move of time, — sluggish and weary 
Until the poplar tops, in journey dreary. 
Had reach'd the river's brim. Then up he rose, 
And, slovi'Iy as that very river flows, 
Walk'd tow'rds the temple-grove with this lament: 
" Why such a golden eve ? The breeze is sent 
Careful and soft, that not a leaf may fall 
Before the serene father of them all 
Bows down his summer head below the west. 
Now am I of breath, speech, and speed possest, 
But at the setting I must bid adieu 
To her for the last time. Night will strew- 
On the damp grass myriads of lingering leaves, 
And with them shall I die; nor much it grieves 
To die, when summer dies on the cold sward. 
Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord 
Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies, 
Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor-roses; 
My kingdom's at its death, and just it is 
That 1 should die witli it : so in all this 
We miscall grief bale, sorrow, heart-break, woe, 
What is there to plain of? By Titan's foe 
I am biU rightly served." So saying, he 
Tfipp'd lightly on, in sort of deathful glee ; 



Laughing at the clear stream and setting sun. 
As though they jests had been : nor had he done 
His laugh at Nature's holy countenance. 
Until that grove appear'd, as if perchance. 
And then his tongue with sober seemlilied 
Gave utterance as he enter'd : " Ha I" I said, 

King of the butterflies ; but by this gloom. 
And by old Rhadamanthus' tongue of doom, 
This dusk religion, pomp of solitude. 
And the Promethean clay by thief endued. 
By old Saturnus' forelock, by his head 
Shook with eternal palsy, I did wed 
Myself to things of light from infancy; 
And thus to be cast out, thus lorn to die, 
Is sure enough to make a mortal man 
Grow impious." So he inwardly began 
On things for which no wording can be found ; 
Deeper and deeper sinking, until drown'd 
Beyond the reach of music : for the choir 
Of Cynthia he heard not, though rough brier 
Nor muffling thicket interposed to dull 
The vesper hymn, far swollen, soft and full, 
Through the dark pillars of those sylvan aisles.' 
He saw not the two maidens, nor their smiles, 
Wan as primroses gallier'd at midnight 
By chilly-finger'd spring. " Unhappy wight ! 
Endymion!" said Peona, "we are here! 
What wouldst thou ere we all are laid on bier?" 
Then he embraced her, and his lady's hand 
Press'd, saying : " Sister, I would have command. 
If it were heaven's will, on our sad fate." 
At which that dark-eyed stranger stood elate. 
And said, in a new voice, but sweet as love, 
To Endymion's amaze : " By Cupid's dove. 
And so thou shalt ! and by the lily truth 
Of my own breast thou shalt, beloved youth ! " 
And as .she spake, into her face there cam 
Light, as reflected from a silver flame : 
Her long black hair swcll'd ampler, in display 
Full golden; in her eyes a brighter day 
Dawn'd blue and full of love. Ay, he beheld 
Phoebe, his passion ! joyous she upheld 
Her lucid bow, continuing thus: " Drear, drear 
Has our delaying been ; but foolish fear 
Withheld me first; and then decrees of fate; 
And then 'twas fit that from this mortal state 
Thou shouldst, my love, by some unlook'd-for change 
Be spiritualized. Peona, we shall range 
Tiiose forests, and to thee they safe shall be 
As was thy cradle; hither shalt thou flee 
To meet us many a time." Next Cynthia bright 
Peona kiss'd, and bless'd with fair good-night : 
Her brother kiss'd her too, and knelt adown 
Before his goddess, in a blissful swoon. 
She gave her fair hands to him, and behold. 
Before three swiftest kisses he had told. 
They vanish'd far aw ay ! — Peona went 
Home through the gloomv wood in wonderment 
5G5 



34 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



iiamt^. 



PART I. 



Upon a time, before the faery broods 

Drove Nymph and Satyr from the prosperous woods, 

Before King Oberon's bright diadem, 

Sceptre, and mantle, clasp'd with dewy gem, 

Frighted away the Dryads and the Fauns 

From rushes green, and brakes, and cowslip'd lawns. 

The ever-smitten Hermes empty left 

His golden throne, bent warm oil amorous theft : 

From higli Olympus had he stolen light, 

Oil this side of Jove's clouds, to escape the sight 

Of his great summoner, and made retreat 

Into a forest on the shores of Crete. 

For somewhere in that sacred island dwelt 

A nymph, to whom all hoofed Satyrs knelt ; 

At whose white feet the languid Tritons pour'd 

Pearls, while on land they vvither'd and adored. 

Fast by the springs where she to bathe was wont. 

And in those meads where sometimes she might haunt, 

Were strewn rich gifts, unknown to any Muse, 

Though Fancy's casket were unlock'd to choose. 

Ah, what a world of love was at her feet ! 

So Hermes thought, and a celestial heat 

Burnt from his winged heels to either ear, 

That from a whiteness, as the lily clear, 

Blush'd into roses 'mid his golden hair, 

Fallen in jealous curls about his shoulders bare. 

From vale to vale, from wood to wood, he flew, 

Breathing upon the flowers his passion new. 

And wound with many a river to its head, 

To find where this sweet nymph prepared her secret 

bed: 
In vain ; the sweet nymph might nowhere be found. 
And so he rested, on the lonely ground, 
Pensive, and full of painful jealousies 
Of the Wood-Gods, and even the very trees. 
There as he stood, he heard a mournful voice, 
Such as once heard, in gentle heart, destroys 
All pain but pity : thus the lone voice spake : 
" When from this wreathed tomb shall I awake ? 
When move in a sweet body fit for life. 
And love, and pleasure, and the ruddy strife 
Of hearts and lips? Ah, miserable me!" 
The God, dove-footed, glided silently 
Round busli and tree, soft-brushing, in his speed, 
The taller grasses and full-flowering weed. 
Until he found a palpitating snake. 
Bright, and cirque-couchant in a dusky brake. 



She was a gordian shape of dazzling hue, 
Vermilion-spotted, golden, green, and blue ; 
Striped like a zebra, freckled like a pard. 
Eyed like a peacock, and all crimson-barr'd ; 
And full of silver moons, that, as she breathed. 
Dissolved, or brighter shone, or interwrealhed 
Their lustres with the glooiuier tapestries — 
So rainbow-sided, toueh'd with miseries. 
She seem'd, at once, some penanced lady elf. 
Some demon's mistress, or the demon's self. 



Upon her crest she wore a wannish fire 
Sprinkled with stars, like Ariadne's tiar : 
Her head was serpent, but ah, bitter-sweet ! 
She had a woinan's mouth with all its pearls complete 
And for her eyes — what could such eyes do there 
But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair? 
As Proserpine still weeps for her Sicilian air. 
Her throat was serpent, but the words she spake 
Came, as through bubbling honey, for Ijove's sake, 
And thus ; while Hermes on his pinions lay. 
Like a stoop'd falcon ere he takes his prey : 

" Fair Hermes ! crown'd with feathers, fluttering 

light, 
I had a splendid dream of thee last night : 
I saw thee sitting, on a throne of gold. 
Among the Gods, upon Olympus old. 
The only sad one ; for thou didst not hear 
The soft, lute-finger'd Muses chanting clear. 
Nor even Apollo when he sang alone. 
Deaf to his throbbing throat's long, long melodious 

moan. 
I dreamt I saw thee, robed in purple flakes. 
Break amorous through the clouds, as morning breaks. 
And, swiftly as a bright Phoebean dart. 
Strike for the Cretan isle ; and here thou art I 
Too gentle Hermes, liast thou found the maid?" 
Whereat the star of Lethe not delay 'd 
His rosy eloquence, and thus inquired : 
" Thou smooth-lipp'd serpent, surely high inspired ! 
Thou beauteous wreath with melancholy eyes, 
Possess whatever bliss thou canst devise. 
Telling me only where my nymph is fled, — 
Where she doth breathe ! " " Bright planet, thou hast 

said," 
Return'd the snake, " but seal with oaths, fair God ! " 
" I swear," said Hermes, " by my serpent rod, 
And by thine eyes, and by thy starry crown ! " 
Light flew his earnest words, among the blossoms 

blown. 
Then thus again the brilliance feminine : 
" Too frail of heart ! fiir this lost nymph of thine. 
Free as the air, invisibly, she strays 
About these thornless wilds ; her pleasant days 
She tastes unseen ; unseen her nimble feet 
Leave traces in the grass and flowei;s sweet : 
From weary tendrils, and bow'd branches green. 
She plucks the fruit unseen, she bathes unseen; 
And by my povier is her beauty veil'd 
To keep it unaffronted, unassail'd 
By the love-glances of unlovely eyes, 
Of Satyrs, Fauns, and blear'd Silenus' sighs. 
Pale grew her immortality, for woe 
Of all these lovers, and she grieved so 
I took compassion on her, bade her steep 
Her hair in weird syrops, that would keep 
Her loveliness invisible, yet free 
To wander as she loves, in liberty. 
Thou shah behold her, Hermes, thou alone. 
If thou wilt, as thou swearest, grant my boon!" 
Then, once again, the charmed God began 
An oath, and through the serpent's ears it ran 
Warm, tremulous, devout, psalterian. 
5G6 



LAMIA. 



35 



Ravish'd she lifted her Circean head, 

Blush'd a live damask, and swift-lisping said, 

" I was a woman, let me have once more 

A woman's shape, and charming as before. 

I love a youth of Corinth — O the bliss ! 

Give me my woman's form, and place me where he is. 

Stoop, Hermes, let me breath upon thy brow, 

And thou shalt see thy sweet nymph even now." 

The God on half-shut feathers sank serene, 

She breathed upon his eyes, and swift was seen 

Of both the guarded nymph near-smiling on the green. 

It v*'as no dream ; or say a dream it was. 

Real are the dreams of Gods, and smoothly pass 

Their pleasures in a long immortal dream. 

One warm, flush'd moment, hovering, it might seem 

Dash'd by the wood-nympli's beauty, so he burn'd ; 

Then, lighting on the printless verdure, turn'd 

To the swoon'd serpent, and with languid arm. 

Delicate, put to proof the lithe Caducean charm. 

So done, upon the nymph his eyes he bent 

Full of adoring tears and blandishment, 

And towards her stept : she, like a moon in wane, 

Faded before liim, cower'd, nor could restrain 

Her fearful sobs, self-folding like a (lower 

That faints into itself at evening hour : 

But the God fostering her chilled hand, 

She felt the warmth, her eyelids open'd bland 

And, like new flowers at morning song of bees, 

Bloom'd, and gave up her honey to the lees. 

Into the green-recessed woods they flew ; 

Nor grew they pale, as mortal lovers do. 



Left to herself, the serpiJnt now began 
To change ; her elfin blood in madness ran. 
Her mouth foam'd, and the grass, therewith besprent, 
Wither'd at dew so sweet and virulent ; 
Her eyes in torture fix'd, and anguish drear. 
Hot, glazed, and wide, with lid-lashes all sear, 
Flash'd phosphor and sharp sparlvs, without one cool- 
ing tear. 
The colors all inflamed throughout her train. 
She writhed about, convulsed with scarlet pain : 
A deep volcanian yellow look the place 
Of all her milder-mooned body's grace ; 
And, as the lava ravishes the mead. 
Spoilt all her silver mail, and golden brede : 
Made gloom of all her frecklings, streaks and bars. 
Eclipsed her crescents, and lick'd up her stars : 
So that, in moments few, she vias undrest 
Of all her sapphires, greens, and amethyst. 
And rubious-argent ; of all these bereft, 
Is'othing but pain and ugliness were left. 
Still shone her crown ; that vanish'd, also she 
Melted and disappcar'd as suddenly ; 
And in the air, her new voice luting soft, 
Cried, " Lycius ! gentle Lycius ! " — Borne aloft 
With the liright mists about the mountains hoar. 
These words dissolved : Crete's forests heard no more. 



Whither fled Lamia, now a lady bright, 
A full-born beauty new and exquisite? 
Site fled into that valley they pass o'er 
Who go to Corinth from Chenchreas' shore ; 
And rested at the foot of those wild hills, 
The rugged founts of the Persean rills, 
3M 



And of that other ridge whose barren back 
Stretches, with all its mist and cloudy rack. 
South-westward to Cleone. There she stood 
About a young bird's flutter from a wood. 
Fair, on a sloping green of mossy tread. 
By a clear pool, wherein she passioned 
To see herself escaped from so sore ills. 
While her robes flaunted with the daflbdils. 

Ah, happy Lycius ! — for she was a maid 
More beautiful than ever twisted braid. 
Or sigh'd, or blush'd, or on spring-flower'd lea 
Spread a green kirtle to the minstrelsy : 
A virgin purest lipp'd, yet in the lore 
Of love deep learn'd to the red heart's core : 
Not one hour old, yet of sciential brain 
To unperplex bliss from its neighbor pain ; 
Define their pettish limits, and estrange 
Their points of contact, and swift counterchange ; 
Intrigue with the specious chaos, and dispart 
Its most ambiguous atoms with sure arti 
As though in Cupid's college she had spent 
Sweet days a lovely graduate, still unslient. 
And kept his rosy terms in idle languishment. 

Why this fair creature chose so fairily 
By the wayside to linger, we shall see ; 
But first 'tis fit to tell how she could nui.se 
And dream, when in the serpent prison-house. 
Of all she list, strange or magnificent , 
How, ever, where she will'd, her spirit went ; 
Whether to faint Elysium, or where 
Down through tress-lifiing waves the Nereids fair 
Wind into Thetis' bower by many a pearly stair ; 
Or where God Bacchus drains his cups divine, 
Stretch'd out, at ease, beneath a glutinous pine ; 
Or where in Pluto's gardens palatine 
Mulciber's columns gleam in far piazzian line. 
And sometimes into cities she would send 
Her dream, v^ith feast and rioting to blend; 
And once, while among mortals dreaming thus. 
She saw the young Corinthian Lycius 
Charioting foremost in the envious race. 
Like a young Jove with calm uncager face, 
And fell into a swooning love of him. 
Now on the moth-time of that evening dim 
He would return that way, as well she knew, 
To Corinth from the shore ; for freshly blew 
The eastern soft wind, and his galley now 
Grated the quay-stones wilh her brazen prow 
In port Cenchreas, from Egiiia i.sle 
Fresh anchor'd ; whither he had been awhile 
To sacrifice to Jove, whose temple there 
Waits with high marble doors for blood and incense 

rare. 
Jove heard his vows, and better'd his desire ; 
For by some frcakful chance he made retire 
From his companions, and set forth to walk. 
Perhaps grown wearied of their Corinlh talk : 
Over the solitary hills ho fared. 
Thoughtless at firet, but ere eve's star appcar'd 
His phantasy was lost, where reason fades, 
In die calm'd twilight of Platonic shades. 
Lamia beheld him coming, near, more near — 
Close to her passing, in indiflercnce drear. 
His silent sandals swept the mossy green ; 
So neighbor 'd to him, and yet so unseen 
567 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



She stood : he pass'd, shut up in mysteries, 

His mind vvrapp'd like his mantle, while her eyes 

Follovv'd his steps, and her neck regal white 

Turn'd — syllabling thus, "Ah, Lycius bright! 

And will j'ou leave me on the hills alone ? 

Lycius, look back ! and be some pity shown." 

He did ; not with cold wonder fearingly, 

But Orpheus-liive at an Eurydice ; 

For so delicious were the words she sung 

It seem'd he had loved them a whole summer long 

And soon his eyes had drunk her beauty up, 

Leaving no drop in the bewildering cup, 

And slill the cup was full, — while he, afraid 

Lest she sliould vanish ere his lip had paid 

Due adoration, thus began to adore ; 

Her soft look growing coy, she saw his chain so sure 

" Leave thee alone ! Look back ! Ah, Goddess, see 

Whether my eyes can ever turn from thee ! 

For pity do not this sad heart belie — 

Even as thou vaiiishest so I shall die. 

Stay ! though a Naiad of the rivers, stay ! 

To thy far wishes will thy streams obey : 

Stay I though the greenest woods be thy domain, 

Alone they can drink up the morning rain : 

Though a descended Pleiad, will not one 

Of thine harmonious sisters keep in tune 

Thy spheres, and as thy silver proxy shine ? 

So sweetly to these ravisli'd ears of mine 

Came tiiy sweet greeting, that if thou shouldst fade 

Thy memory will waste me to a shade : — 

For pity do not melt !" — " If I should stay," 

Said Lamia, " here, upon this floor of clay. 

And pain my steps upon these flowers too rough, 

What canst thou say or do of charm enough 

To dull the nice remembrance of my home ? 

Thou canst not ask me with thee here to roam 

Over these hills and vales, where no joy is, — 

Empty of immortality and bliss! 

Thou art a scholar, Lycius, and must know 

That finer spirits cannot breathe below 

In human climes, and live: Alas! poor youth, 

What taste of purer air hast thou to soothe 

My essence ? What serener palaces. 

Where I may all my many senses please, 

And by mysterious sleights a hundred thirsts appease ? 

It cannot be — Adieu !" So said, she rose 

Tiptoe with white arms spread. He, sick to lose 

The amorous promise of her lone complain, 

Swoon'd murmuring of love, and pale with pain. 

The cruel lady, without any show 

Of sorrow for her tender favorite's woe. 

But rather, if her eyes could brighter be. 

With brighter eyes and slow amenity, 

Put her new lips to his, and gave afresh 

The life she had so tangled in her mesh : 

And as he from one trance was wakening 

Into another, she began to sing, 

Happy in beauty, life, and love, and every thing, 

A song of love, too sweet for earthly lyres, 

While, like held breath, the stars drew in their pant 

ing fires. 
And then she wliisper'd in such trembling tone, 
As those who, safe together met alone 
For the first time through many anguish'd days, 
ITse other speech than looks ; bidding him raise 
His drooping head, and clear his soul of doubt, 
For that she was a woman, and without 



Any more subtle fluid in her veins 

Than throbbing blood, and that the selfsame pains 

Inhabited her frail-strung heart as his. 

And next she wonder'd how his eyes could miss 

Her face so long in Corinth, where, she said. 

She dwelt but half retired, and there had led 

Days happy as the gold coin could invent 

Without the aid of love ; yet in content 

Till she saw him, as once she pass'd him by, 

Where 'gainst a column he leant thoughtfully 

At Venus' temple porch, 'mid baskets heap'd 

Of amorous herbs and flowers, newly reap'd 

Late on that eve, as 'twas the night before 

The Adonian feast ; whereof she saw no more. 

But wept alone those days, for why should she adore ' 

Lycius from death awoke into amaze. 

To see her still, and singing so sweet lays ; 

Then from amaze into delight he fell 

To hear her whisper woman's lore so well ; 

And every word she spake enticed him on 

To unperplex'd delight and pleasure known. 

Let the mad poets say whate'er they please 

Of the sweets of Fairies, Peris, Goddesses, 

There is not such a treat among them all, 

Haunters of cavern, lake, and waterfall, 

As a real woman, lineal indeed 

From Pyrrha's pebbles or old Adam's seed. 

Thus gentle Lamia jndged, and judged aright, 

That Lycius could not love in hajf a fright, 

So threw the goddess ofi; and won his heart 

More pleasantly by playing woman's part, 

With no more awe than what her beauty gave. 

That, while it smote, still guarantied to save. 

Lycius to all made eloquent reply, 

Marrying to every word a twin-born sigh ; 

And last, pointing to Corinth, ask'd her sweet, 

If 'twas too far that night for her soft feet. 

The way was short, for Lamia's eagerness 

Made, by a spell, the triple league decrease 

To a few paces ; not at all surmised 

By blinded Lycius, so in her comprised 

They pass'd the city gates, he knew not how. 

So noiseless, and he never thought to know. 



As men talk in a dream, .so Corinth all, 
Throughout her palaces imperial. 
And all her populous streets and temples lewd, 
Mutter'd, like tempest in the distance brew'd. 
To the wide-spreaded night above her towers, 
Men, women, rich and poor, in the cool hours. 
Shuffled their sandals o'er the pavement while, 
Cornpanion'd or alone ; while many a light 
Flared, here and there, from wealthy festivals. 
And threw their moving shadows on the walls, 
Or found them cluster'd in the corniced .shade 
Of some arch'd temple door, or dusky colonnade 



Mufl^ing his face, oC greeting friends in fear. 
Her fingers he press'd hard, as one came near 
With curl'd gray beard, sharp eyes, and smooth DaU 

crown, 
Slow-stepp'd, and robed in philosophic gown : 
Lycius shrank closer, as they met and past, 
Into his mantle, adding wings to haste, 
568 



LAMIA. 



37 



While hurried Lamia trembled : " Ah," said he, 

" Why do you shudder, love, so ruefully ? 

Why does your tender palm dissolve in dew?" — 

" I 'm wearied," said fair Lamia ; " tell me who 

Is that old man ? I cannot bring to mind 

His features: Lycius! wherefore did you blind 

Yourself from his quick eyes?" Lycius replied, 

" 'Tis ApoUonius sage, my trusty guide 

And good instructor ; but to-night he seems 

The ghost of folly haunting my sweet dreams." 

While yet he spake Ihey had arrived before 
A pillar'd porch, with lofiy porial door, 
Where hung a silver lamp, whose phosphor glow 
Ketlocled in the slabbed steps below, 
IMild as a star in water ; for so new, 
And so unsullied was the marble hue. 
So through the crystal polish, liquid fine. 
Ran the dark veins, that none but feet divine 
Could e'er have touch'd there. Sounds /Eolian 
Breathed from the hinges, as the ample span 
Of the wide dooi-s disclosed a place unknown 
Some time to any, but those two alone. 
And a few Persian mutes, who that same year 
Were seen about the markets : none knew where 
They could inhabit ; the most curious 
Were foil'd, who watch'd to trace them to their house : 
And but the flitler-winged verse must tell. 
For truth's sake, what woe afterwards belell, 
'T would humor many a heart to leave them thus, 
Shut i'rom the busy world of more incredulous. 



PART II. 

Love in a hut, with water and a crust, 

Is — Love, forgive us ! — cinders, ashes, dust ; 

Love in a palace is perhaps at last 

More grievous torment than a hermit's fast : — 

That is a doubtful tale from fairj'-land. 

Hard for the non-elect to understand. 

Had Lycius lived to hand his story down. 

He might have given the moral a fresh frown. 

Or clench'd it quite : but too short was their bliss 

To breed distrust and hate, thai make the soft voice 

hiss. 
Besides, there, nightly, with terrific glare. 
Love, jealous grown of so complete a pair, 
(Hover'd and buzz'd his wings, with fearful roar, 
jAlx)ve the linlel of their chamber-door. 
And down the passage cast a glow upon the floor. 

j For all this came a ruin : side by side 
iTliey were enthroned, in the eventide, 
iTpon a couch, near to a curtaining 
IWhose airy texture, from a golden string, 
(Floated into the room, and let appear 
'''nveil'd the suumicr heaven, blue and clear, 
iBetwi.\t two marble shafts: — there they reposed, 
I Where use had made it sweet, with eyelids closed, 
having a tyihe which love still open kept. 
That they might see each other while they almost 

slept ; 
»Vhen from the slope side of a suburb hill, 
)eafening the swallow's twitter, came a thrill 
3f trumpets — Lycius started — the somids fled, 
3ut left a thouglit, a buzzing in liis head. 



For the first time, since first he harbor'd in 

That purple-lined palace of sweet sin, 

His spirit pass'd beyond its golden bourn 

Into the noisy world almost forsworn. 

The lady, ever watchful, penetrant. 

Saw this with pain, so arguing a want 

Of something more, more than her empery 

Of joys; and she began to moan and sigh 

Because he mused beyond her, knowing well 

That but a moment's thought is passion's (Missing-bell. 

" Why do you sigh, fair creature V whisper'd he ; 

" Why do you think ?" return'd she tenderly . 

" You have deserted me ; where am 1 now ? 

Not in your heart wiiile care weighs on your brow: 

No, no, you have dismiss'd me ; and 1 go 

From your breast houseless : ay, it must be so" 

He answer'd, bending to her open eyeis. 

Where he was mirror'd small in paradise, 

" My silver planet, both of eve and morn ! 

Why will you plead yonrself so sad forlorn. 

While I am striving how to fill my heart 

With deeper crimson, and a double smart ? 

How to entangle, trammel up and snare 

Your soul in mine, and lal)yrinih you there, 

Like the hid scent in an unbuddcd rose > 

Ay, a sweet kiss — you see your mighty woes. 

My thoughts ! shall I unveil them ? Listen thea ! 

What mortal haih a prize, that oilier men 

May be confounded and abash'd willial, 

But lets it sometimes pace abroad majeslical. 

And triumph, as in thee I should rejoice 

Amid the hoarse alarm of Corinth's voice. 

Let my foes choke, .ind my friends shout a.lir. 

While through the thronged streets your bridal eai 

Wheels round its dazzling spokes." — The laily's cheek 

Trembled ; she nothing said, but, pale and meek, 

Arose and knelt before him, wept a rain 

Of sorrows at his words ; at last with pain 

Beseeching him, the while his iiand she wrung. 

To change his purpose. He thereat was stung, 

Perverse, with stronger fancy to reclaim 

Her wild and timid nature to his aim ; 

Besides, for all his love, in sclfdespiie. 

Against his better self, he took delight 

Luxurious in her sorrows, soft and new 

His passion, cruel grown, took on a hue 

Fierce and sanguineous as 'twas possible 

In one v\hose brow had no dark veins to swell 

Fine was the mitigated fury, like 

Apollo's presence when in act to strike 

Tlic serpent — Ha, the serpent ! certes, she 

Was none. She burnt, she loved the tyranny, 

.•Vnd, all-subdued, consented to the hour 

Wlien to the bridal he should lead his paramour. 

Whispering in midnight silence, said the youth, 

•' Sure some sweet name thou hast, though, by my 

truth, 
I have not ask'd it, ever thinking thee 
Not mortal, but of heaverdy progeny. 
As slill I do. Hast any mortal name. 
Fit appellation for this dazzling frame ? 
Or friends or kinsfolk on the citied earth. 
To sliaro our marringe-fcast and nuptial mirlli?" 
" I have no friends," said Lmnia, " no, not one ; 
My presence in wide Corinih hardly known • 
My parents' bones are in their dusty urns 
Sepulchred, where no kindled incense bunts, 
569 



38 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS, 



Seeing all iheir luckless race are dead, save me, 
And I neglect the holy rite for thee. 
Even as you list invite your many guests : 
But if, as now it seems, your vision rests 
With any pleasure on me, do not bid 
Old Apollonius — from him keep me hid." 
Lycius, perplex'd at words so blind and blank, 
]\Iade clo.se inquiry ; from whose touch she shrank, 
Feigning a sleep ; and he to the dull shade 
Of deep sleep in a moment was betray'd. 

It was the custom then to bring away 
The bride from home at blushing shut of day, 
Veil'd, in a chariot, heralded along 
By strewn flowers, torches, and a marriage song, 
With other pageants ; but tiiis fiir i nknown 
Had not a friend. So being left alone 
(Lycius was gone to summon all his kin). 
And knowing surely she could never win 
His foolish lieart from its mad pompousness. 
She set herself, high-thoughted, how to dress 
The misery in fit magnificence. 
She did so, but 'tis doubtful how and whence 
Came, and who were her subtle servitors. 
About the halls, and to and from the door.^. 
There was a noise of wings, till in short space 
The glowing banquet-room shone with Avide-arched 

grace. 
A haunting music, sole perhaps and lone 
Supportress of the fairy-roof, made moan 
Throughout, as fearful the whole charm might fade. 
Fresh carved cedar, mimicking a glads 
Of palm and plantain, met from either side, 
High in the midst, in honor of the bride : 
Two palms and then two plantains, and so on, 
i'rom either side their stems branch'd one to one 
All down the aisled palace ; and beneath all 
There ran a stream of lamps straight on from wall 

to wall. 
So canopied, lay an untasted feast 
Teeming with odors. Lamia, regal drest. 
Silently paced about, and as she went. 
In pale contented sort of discontent, 
IMission'd her viewless servants to enrich 
Tlte fretted splendor of each nook and niche. 
Between the tree-stems, marbled plain at first, 
Came jasper panels ; then, anon, there burst 
Forth creeping imagery of slighter trees. 
And with the larger wove in small intricacies. 
Approving all, she faded at self-will. 
And shut the chamber up, close, hush'd and still, 
Complete and ready for the revels rude, 
AVhen dreaded guests would come to spoil her solitude. 

The day appear'd, and all the gossip rout. 
O senseless Lycius ! Madman ! wherefore flout 
The silent-blessing fete, warm cloister'd hours. 
And show to common eyes these secret bowers ? 
The herd approach'd ; each guest, with busy brain, 
Arriving at the portal, gazed amain. 
And enler'd marvelling : for they knew the street, 
Remember'd it from childhood all complete 
Without a gap, yet ne'er before had seen 
That royal porch, that high-built fair demesne ; 
So in they hurried all, mazed, curious and keen : 
Save one, who look'd thereon with eye severe, 
And with calm-planted steps walk'd in austere; 



'Twas Apollonius : something too he laugh'd. 
As though some knotty problem, tliat had daft 
His patient thought, had now begun to thaw. 
And solve and melt: 'twas just as he foresaw. 

He met within the murmurous vestibule 
His young disciple. " 'Tis no common rule, 
Lycius," said he, " for uninvited guest 
To force himself upon you, and infest 
With an unbidden presence the bright throng 
Of younger friends ; yet must I do this wrong. 
And you forgive me." Lycius blush'd, and led 
The old man through the inner doors broad spreaiJ , 
Willi reconciling words and courteous mien 
Turning into sweet milk the sophist's spleen. 

Of wealthy lustre was tlie banquet-room, 
Fill'd with pervading brilliance and perfume: 
Before each lucid ponel fuming stood 
A censer fed with myrrh and spiced wood. 
Each by a sacred tripod held aloft. 
Whose slender feet wide-swerved upon the soft 
Wool-woofed carpets : fifty wreatlis of smoke 
From fifty censers their light voyage took 
To the high roof, still niimick'd as they rose 
Along the mirror'd walls by twin-clouds odorous. 
Twelve sphered tables, by silk seals insphered, 
High as the level of a man's breast rear'd 
On libbard's paws, upheld the heavy gold 
Of cups and goblets, and the store thrice told 
Of Ceres' horn, and, in huge vessels, wine 
Came from the gloomy tun with merry shine. 
Thus loadecf with a feast, the tables stood. 
Each shrining in the midst the image of a God. 

When in an antechamber every guest 
Had felt the cold full sponge to pleasure press'd, 
By minist'ring slaves, upon his hands and feet. 
And fragrant oils with ceremony meet 
Pour'd on his hair, they all moved to the feast 
In white robes, and themselves in order placed 
Around the silken couches, wondering 
Whence all this mighty cost and blaze of vvealtli 
could spring. 

Soft went the music that soft air along. 
While fluent Greek a vowell'd under-song 
Kept up among the guests discoursing low 
At first, for scarcely was the w ine at flow ; 
But when the happy vintage touch'd their brains, 
Louder they talk, and louder come the strains 
Of powerful instruments : — the gorgeous dyes, 
The space, the splendor of the draperies. 
The roof of awful richness, neciarous cheer, 
Beautiful slaves, and Lamia's self, appear, 
Now, when the wine has done its rosy deed. 
And every soul from human trammels freed. 
No more so strange : for merry wine, sweet wine. 
Will make Elysian shades not too fair, too divine. 
Soon was God Bacchus at meridian height; 
Flush'd were their cheeks, and bright eyes double 

bright : 
Garlands of every green, and every scent 
From vales deflower'd, or forest trees, branch-rent, 
In baskets of bright osier'd gold were brought 
High as the handles heap'd, to suit the thought 
570 



LAMIA. 



39 



Of every guest ; that each, as he did please, 
Might fancy-fit liis brows, silk-pillow'd at his ease. 



WTiat wreath for Lamia ? What for Lycius ? 
What for the sage, old Apollonius ? 
Upon her aching forehead be there hung 
The leaves of willow and of adder's tongue; 
And for the youth, quick, let us strip for him 
The thyrsus, that his watching eyes may swim 
Into forgetfulness ; and, for the sage, 
Let spear-grass and the spiteful thistle wage 
War on his temples. Do not all charms fly 
At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 
There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : 
We know her woof, her texture ; she is given 
In the dull catalogue of common things. 
Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings. 
Conquer all mysteries by rule and line. 
Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine — 
Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 
The tender-person'd Lamia melt into a shade. 



By her glad Lycius sitting, in chief place, 
Scarce saw in all the room another face. 
Till checking his love trance, a cup he took 
FuU-brimm'd, and opposite sent forth a look 
'Cross the broad table, to beseech a glance 
From his old teacher's wrinkled countenance, 
And pledge him. The bald-head philosopher 
Had fix'd his eye, without a twinkle or stir 
Full on the alarmed beauty of the bride, 
Browbeating iier lair form, and troubling her sweet 

pride. 
Lycius then press'd her hand, with devout touch, 
As pale it lay upon the rosy couch : 
'T was icy, and the cold ran through his veins ; 
Then sudden it grew hot, and all the pains 
Of an unnatural heat shot to his heart. 
" Lamia, what means this ? Wherefore dost thou start ? 
Knovv'st thou that man ?" Poor Lamia answer'd not. 
He gazed into her eyes, and not a jot 
Own'd they the lovelorn piteous appeal : 
More, more he gazed : his human senses reel : 
Some angry spell that loveliness absorbs; 
There was no recognition in those orbs. 
" Lamia ! " he cried — and no soft-toned reply. 
The many heard, and the loud revelry 
Grew hush ; the stately music no more breathes; 
The myrtle sicken'd in a tiiousand wreaths. 
By faint degrees, voice, lute, and pleasure ceased; 
A deadly silence step by step increased, 
Until it seem'd a liorrid presence there, 
And not a man but felt the terror in his hair. 
"Lamia I" he shriek'd : and nothing but the shriek 
With its sad echo did the silence break. 
" Begone, foul dream !" he cried, gazing again 
III the bride's face, where now no azure vein 
42 



Wander'd on fair-spaced temples ; no soft bloom 
Misted the cheek; no passion to illume 
The deep-recessed vision ; — all was blight ; 
Lamia, no longer fair, there sat a deadly white. 
" Shut, shut those juggling eyes, thou ruthless man ! 
Turn them aside, wretch I or the righteous ban 
Of all the Gods, whose dreadful images 
Here represent their shadowy presences. 
May pierce them on the sudden with the thorn 
Of painful blindness ; leaving thee forlorn. 
In trembling dotage to the feeblest fright 
Of conscience, for their long-offended might, 
For all thine impious proud-heart sophistries. 
Unlawful magic, and enticing lies. 
Corinliiians I look upon that gray-beard wretch ! 
Mark how, possess'd, his lashless eyelids stretch 
Around his demon eyes ! Corinthians, see ! 
My sweet bride withers at their potency." 
"Fool I" said the sophist, in an under-tone 
Gruff with contempt ; which a death-nighing moan 
From Lycius answer'd, as heart-struck and lost, 
He sank supine beside the aching ghost. 
" Fool ! Fool I " repeated he, while his eyes still 
Relented not, nor moved ; " fi-om every ill 
Of life have I preserved thee to this day. 
And shall I see thee made a serpent's prey?" 
Then Lamia breathed death-breath ; the sophist's eye, 
Like a sharp spear, went through her utterly. 
Keen, cruel, perceani, slinging: she, as well 
As her weak hand could any meaning tell, 
Motion'd him to be silent; vainly so. 
He look'd and look'd again a level — No ! 
" A Seqjent ! " echoed he ; no sooner said. 
Than with a frightful scream she vanished : 
And Lycius' arms were empty of delight. 
As were his limbs of life, from that same night. 
On the high couch he lay! — his friends came round- 
Supported him — no pulse, or breath they found. 
And, in its marriage robe, the heavy body wound.* 



* " Philostratus, in his fourth book de Fita ^pollonii, 
hath a memorable instance in this kind, which I may not 
omit, of one Menippiis Lycius. a youns man twenty five 
years of age. that going hetvvixt Cenchreas and Corinth, 
met such a phantasm in the habit of a fair gentlewoman, 
v.hich taking liim l)y ihe liand. carried him home to lier 
house, in the suburbs of Corinth, and toUl him she was a 
Plioenician by birth, and if lie would tarry with her, he 
should hear her sing and play, and drink such wine as 
never any drank, and no man should molest him ; hut she, 
being fair and lovely, would die with him, that was fair 
and lovely to behold. The young man, a philosopher, 
otherwise staid and discreet, able to moderate his passions, 
though not this of love, tarried witli her a while to his 
great content, and at last married her, to whose wedding, 
amongst other guests, came Apollonius; who, by some 
probable conjectures, found her out to be a serpent, a 
lamia ; and that all lier furniture was, like Tantalus' gold, 
described by Homer, no substance but mere illusions. 
When she saw herself descried, she wept, and desired 
Aptillonius to be silent, but he would not be moved, and 
thereupon she, plate, house, and all that was in it, van- 
ished in an instant : many thousands took notice of this 
fact, for it was done in the midst of Greece."— Birton's 
Analomy of jyiclanchoty. Part 3, Sect. 2, Memb. I, Subs. 1. 
571 



40 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



KisaiieU^, or tfte 3?ot of Mmil; 

A STORY FROM BOCCACCIO. 



Fair Isabel, poor simple Isabel ! 

Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love's eye ! 
They could not in the self-sanie mansion dwell 

Without some stir of heart, some malady ; 
They couki not sit at meai's but feel liovv well 

It soothed each to be the other by ; 
They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep 
But to each other dream, and nightly weep. 

n. 

With every morn their love grew tenderer. 
With every eve deeper and tenderer still ; 

He might not in house, field, or garden stir. 
But her full shape would all his seeing fill ; 

And bis continutvl voice was pleasanter 
To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill ; 

Her lute-sSring gave an echo of his name. 

She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. 

in. 

He knew vihose gentle hand was at the latch, 
Before the door had given her to his eyes ; 

And from her chamber-window he would catch 
Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; 

And constont as her vespei-s v.ould he watch, 
Because her face was turn'd to the same skies ; 

And with aick longing all the night outwear, 

To hear her moming-step upon the stair. 

IV. 

A whole' long month oC May in this sad plight 
Made their cheeks paler by the break of June : 

' To-mon-ow will I bow to my delight. 
To-morrow will I ask my lady's boon." — 

"O may I never see another night, 

Lorenzo,, if thy lips breathe not love's tune." — 

So spal-<e they to their pillows ; but, alas, 

Honeyless days oand days did be let pass ; 



Until sweet Isabella's untouch'd cheek 
Fell sick within the rose's just domain. 

Fell thin as a young mother's, who doth seek 
By every lull to cool iier infant's pain : 

" How ill slie is," said he, " I may not speak. 
And yet I will, and tell my love all plain : 

If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears. 

And at tlic least will startle off her csres." 

VI. 

So swd be one fair morning, and all day 
His heart beat nvi'fully against his side ; 

And to his Jicart he imvardly did pray 

For power lo sspeak; but srtill the niddy tide 

Stifled his voicf, siid puked re;'!olve away— - 
Fever'd his high conceit of such a bride, 

Yet brought him to tlie meekness of a child : 

Alas! when pssssioR is both nseefe and wild ! 



vn. 

So once more he had waked and anguished 

A dreary night of love and misery. 
If Isabel's quick eye had not been wed 

To every symbol on his forehead high ; 
She saw it waxing very pale and dead. 

And straight alt flush'd ; so, lisped tenderly, 
"Lorenzo!" — here she ceased her timid quest. 
But in her tone and look he read the rest. 

VIII. 
" O Isabella ! I can half perceive 

Tliat I may speak my grief into thine ear ; 
If thou didst ever any thing believe, 

Believe how I love thee, believe how near 
My soul is to its doom : I would not grieve 

Tiiy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear 
Thine eyes by gazing ; but I caimot live 
Another night, and not my passion shrive. 

IX. 

" Love ! thou art leading me from wintry cold, 
Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime, 

And I must taste the blossoms that unfold 

In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time.' 

So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold, 
And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme : 

Great bliss was with them, and great happiness 

Gre\v, like a lusty flower in June's caress. 

X. 

Parting they seem'd to tread upon the air, 
Twin roses by the Mphyr blown apart 

Only to meet again more close, and share 
The inward fragrance of each other's lieart. 

She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair 
Sang, of delicious love and honey'd dart; 

He with light steps went up a western hill. 

And bade the sun farewell, and joy'd his fill. 

XL 

All close tliey met again, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its plea.sant veil, 

All close they met, all eves, before the dusk 
Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil. 

Close in a boaver of hyacinth and musk, 
Unknown of any, free from whispering tale 

An ! better had it been for ever so. 

Than idle cars should pleasure in their woe 

XIL 

Were they uMbappy then ? — It cannot be — 
Too many tears for lovers have been shed. 

Too many sigbs give we to them in fee. 
Too much of pity after they are dead, 

Too many doleful stories do we see. 

Whose matter in bright gold were best be read ; 

Except in such a page where Tlieseus' spouse 

Over the pathless waves towards him bows. 
573 



ISABELLA. 



41 



XIII. 

But, for the general award of love, 

The httie sweet doth kill much bitterness ; 

Though Dido silent is in under-grove, 
And Isabella's was a great distress. 

Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove 
Was not embalm'd, this truth is not the less — 

Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bovvers, 

Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. 

XIV. 
With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, 

Enriched from ancestral merchandise. 
And for them many a weary hand did swell 

In torched mines and noisy factories. 
And many once proud-quiver"d loins did melt 

In blood from stinging whip ; — with hollow eyes 
Many all day in dazzling river stood. 
To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. 

XV. 
For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, 

And went all naked to the hungry shark ; 
For them his ears gush'd blood ; lor them in death 

The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark 
Lay full of darts ; for them alone did seethe 

A thousand men in troubles wide and dark • 
Half-ignorant, they turn'd an easy wheel. 
That set sharp raclis at w'ork, to pinch and peel. 

XVL 
Why were they proud ? Because their marble founts 

Gush'd with more pride than do a wretch's tears ? — 
Why were they proud ? Because fair orange-mounts 

Were of more soft ascent than lazar-stairs ? 
Why were they proud I Because red-lined accounts 

Were richer than the songs of Grecian years ? 
Why were they proud ? again we ask aloud. 
Why in the name of Glory were they proud ? 

XVII. 
Yet were these Florentines as self-retired 

In hungry pride and gainful cowardice. 
As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, 

Paled in and vineyardcd from beggar-spies ; 
The hawks of ship-mast forests — the untired 

And pannier'd mules for ducats and old lies — 
Quick cat's-paws on the generous stray-away, — 
Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. 

XVIII. 
How was it these same leger-men could spy 

Fair Isabella in her downy nest? 
How could they find out in Lorenzo's eye 

A straying from his toil ? Hot Egypt's pest 
Into their vision covetous and sly ! 

How could these money-bags see east and west? — 
Yet so they did — and every dealer fair 
Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. 

XIX. 

O eloquent and famed Boccaccio ! 

Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, 
And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow. 

And of thy roses amorous of the moon. 
And of thy lilies, that do paler grow 

Now they can no more hear thy ghittern's tune. 
For venturing syllables that ill beseem 
The quiet glooms of such a piteoua theme. 



XX. 

Grant Ihou a pardon here, and then the tale 

Shall move on soberly, as it is meet ; 
There is no other crime, no mad assail 

To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet : 
But it is done — succeed tlie verse or fail — 

To honor thee, and thy gone spirit greet; 
To stead thee as a verse in English tongue. 
An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. 

XXI. 

These brethren having found by many signs 
What love Lorenzo for their sister had. 

And how she loved him loo, each unconfines 
His bitter thoughts to other, well-nigh mad 

That he, the servant of :heir trade designs. 

Should in their sister's love bo blithe and glad. 

When 't was their plan to coax her by degrees 

To some high noble and his olive-trees. 

XXII. 

And many a jealous conference had they. 
And many times they bit their lii^s alone. 

Before they fix'd upon a surest way 

To make the youngster for Ills crime atone ; 

And at the last, these men of cruel clay 
Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone; 

For tliey resolved in some forest dim 

To Ivill Lorenzo, and there bury him. 

XXIII. 
So on a pleasant morning, as he leant 

Into the sunrise o'er the balustrade 
Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent 

Their footing through the dews ; and to him said, 
" You seem there in the quiet of content, 

Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade 
Calm speculation ; but if you are wise. 
Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. 

XXIV. 

" To-day we purpose, ay, this hour v^'e mount 
To spur three leagues towards the Apennine ; 

Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count 
His dewy rosary on the eglantine." 

Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, 

Bovv'd a fair greeting to these serpents' wliine ; 

And went in hasle, to get in readiness, 

With belt, and spur, and bracing hmitsman's dress. 

XXV. 

And as he to the court-yard pass'd along, 
Each third step did he pause, and listen'd oft 

If he could hear his lady's matin-song, 
Or the light whisper of her footstep soft ; 

And as he thus over his passion hung. 
He heard a laugh full musical aloft; 

When, looking up, he saw her features briglit 

Smile through an in-door lattice, all dehght. 

XXVL 
" Love, Isabel !" said he, " I was in pain 

Lest I should miss lo bid thee a good-morrow : 
Ah ! what if I should lose thee, when so fain 

I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow 
Of a jKjor three hours' al)sence ? but we'll gain 

Out of the amorous dark what day dolh borrow 
Good-bye 1 1 '11 soon Imj back." — •' Good-bye I" said sho • 
And ae he went she chanted merrily. 
573 



42 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXVII. 

So the two brothers and their miirder'd man 

Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno's stream 

Gurgles through straiten'd banks, and still doth fan 
Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream 

Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan 
The brothers' faces in the ford did seem, 

Lorenzo's flush with love. — They pass'd the water 

Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. 

XXVIII. 
There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, 

There in that forest did his great love cease ; 
Ah ! when a soul doth thus its freedom win. 

It aches in loneliness — is ill at peace 
As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin : 

The)' dipp'd their swords in the water, and did tease 
Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, 
Each richer by his being a murderer. 

XXIX. 

They told their sister how, with sudden speed, 
Lorenzo had ta'en ship for foreign lands, 

Because of some great urgency and need 
In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. 

Poor girl ! put on thy stifling widow's weed. 

And 'scape at once from Hope's accursed bands ; 

To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, 

And the next day will be a day of sorrow. 

XXX. 

She weeps alone for pleasures not to be ; 

Sorely she wept until the night came on, 
And then, instead of love, O misei-y ! 

She brooded o'er the luxury alone : 
His image in the dusk she seem'd to see, 

And to the silence made a gentle moan, 
Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, 
And on her couch low murmuring, "Where ? where ?" 

XXXL 

But Selfishness, Love's cousin, held not long 

Its fiery vigil in her single breast ; 
She fretted for the golden hour, and hung 

Upon the time with feverish unrest — 
Not long — for soon into her heart a throng 

Of higher occupants, a richer zest, 
Came tragic; passion not to be subdued, 
And sorrow for her love in travels rude. 

XXXII. 

In the mid-days of autumn, on their eves 
The breath of Winter comes from far away, 

And the sick west continually bereaves 
Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay 

Of death among the bushes and the leaves. 
To make all bare before he dares to stray 

From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel 

By gradual decay from beauty fell, 

XXXIII. 
Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes 

She ask'd her brothers, with an eye all pale, 
Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes 

Could keep him off so long ? They gpake a tale 
Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes 

Came on them, like a smoke from Ilinnom's vale ; 
And every night in dreams they groan'd aloud, 
To see their sister in her snowy shroud. 



XXXIV. 

And she had died in drowsy ignorance. 
But for a thing more deadly dark than all ; 

It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance, 
Wliich saves a sick man from the feather'd pall 

For some few gasping moments ; like a lance. 
Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall 

With cruel pierce, and bringing him again 

Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. 

XXXV. 

It was a vision. — In the drowsy gloom, 
The dull of midnight, at her couch's foot 

Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb 

Had marr'd his glossy hair which once could shoot 

Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom 
Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute 

From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears 

Had made a miry channel for his tears. 

XXXVI. 

Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake i 
For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, 

To spoak as when on earth it was awake. 
And Isabella on its music hung : 

Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, 
As in a palsied Druid's harp unstrung ; 

And through it moan'd a ghostly under-song. 

Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briers among. 

XXXVII. 

Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright 
With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof 

From the poor girl by magic of their light. 
The while it did unthread the horrid woof 

Of the late darken'd time, — the murderous spite 
Of pride and avarice, — the dark pine roof 

In the forest, — and the sodden turfed dell, 

Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. 

XXXVIII. 

Saying moreover, " Isabel, my sweet ! 

Red whorlle-berries droop above my head, 
And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet ; 

Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed 
Their leaves and prickly nuts ; a sheep-fold bleat 

Comes from beyond the river to my bed : 
Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, 
And it shall comfort me within the tomb. 

XXXIX. 

" I am a shadow now, alas ! alas ! 

Upon the skirls of human-nature dwelling 
Alone : I chant alone the holy mass. 

While little sounds of life are round me knelling 
And glossy bees at noon do field ward pass. 

And many a chapel-bell the hour is telling. 
Paining me through : those sounds grow strange to me. 
And thou art distant in Humanity. 

XL 

" I know what was, I feel full well what is. 
And I should rage, if spirits could go mad ; 

Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, 

That paleness warms my grave, as though I had 

A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss 

To be my spouse : thy paleness makes me glad : 

Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel 

A greater love through all my essence steal." 
574 



ISABELLA. 



43 



XLI. 
The Spirit moum'd "Adieu!" — dissolved, and left 

The atom darkness in a slow turmoil ; 
As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, 

Thinking ort rugged hours and fruitless toil, 
We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, 

And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil : 
t made sad Isabella's eyelids ache, 
And in the dawn slie started up awake ; 

XLIT. 

" Ha ! ha ! " said she, " I knew not this hard life, 
I thought the worst was simple misery ; 

I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife 
Poriion'd us — happy days, or else to die ; 

But tliere is crime — a brother's bloody knife ! 
Sweet Spirit, thou hast school'd my infancy : 

I'll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, 

And greet thee morn and even in the skies." 

xLiir. 

VVlien the full morning came, she had devised 
How she might secret to the forest hie ; 

How she might find the clay, so dearly prized. 
And sing to it one latest lullaby ; 

How her short absence might be unsiirmised, 
While she the inmost of the dream would try. 

Resolved, she took with her an aged nurse, 

And went into that dismal forest-hearse. 

XLIV. 
See, as they creep along the river-side 

How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, 
And, after looking round the champaign wide. 

Shows her a knife. — " What feverous hectic flame 
Burns in thee, child >. — What good can thee betide. 

That thou shouldst smile again ? " — The evening 
came. 
And they had found Lorenzo's earthy bed ; 
The flint was there, the berries at his head. 

XhV. 

WTio hath not loiter'd in a green church-yard. 
And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, 

Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, 
To see skull, coflln'd bones, and funeral stole ; 

Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr'd. 
And filling it once more with human soul ? 

Ah ! this is holiday to what was felt 

When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. 

XLVI. 

She gazed into the fresh-thrown mould, as though. 
One glance did fully all its secrets tell ; 

Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know 
Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well ; 

Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow. 
Like to a native lily of the dell : 

Then with her knife, all sudden, she began 

To dig more fervently than misers can. 

XLVH. 
Soon she turn'd up a soiled glove, whereon 

Her silk had play'd in purple phantasies; 
She kiss'd it with a lip more chill than stone. 

And put it in her bosom, where it dries 
And freezes utterly unto the hone 

Those dainlie= made to still an infant's cries : 
Then 'gan she work again , nor siay'd her rare. 
But to throw back at times hor veiling hair. 
4-2 ♦ :> -\ 



XLVIII. 
That old nurse stood beside her wondering, 

Until her heart felt piiy to the core 
At sight of such a dismal laboring. 

And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, 
And put her lean hands to the horrid thing : 

Three hours they labor'd at this travail sore ; 
At last they felt the kernel of the grave, 
And Isabella did not stamp and rave. 

XLIX. 
Ah ! wherefore all this wormy circumstance ? 

Why linger at the yawning tomb so long ? 
for the gentleness of old Romance, 

The simple plaining of a minstrel's song! 
Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance. 

For here, in truth, it doth not well belong 
To speak : — turn thee to the very tale. 
And taste tlie music of that vision pale. 



With duller steel than the Persean sword 
They cut away no formless monster's head. 

But one, whose gentleness did well accord 

With death, as life. The ancient harps havt, said 

Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord : 
If Love impersonate was ever dead. 

Pale Isabella kiss'd it, and low moan'd. 

'Twas love; cold, — dead indeed, but not dethroned. 

LL 

In anxious secrecy they took it home. 
And then the prize was all for Isabel : 

She calm'd ils wild hair with a golden comb. 
And all around each eye's sepulchral cell 

Pointed each fringed lash ; the smeared loam 
With tears, as chilly as a dripping well. 

She drench'd away : — and still she comb'd, and kept 

Sighing all day — and still she kiss'd, and wept. 

LII. 
Then in a silken scarf,— sweet with the dews 

Of precious flowers pluck'd in Araby, 
And divine liquids come with odorous ooze 

Through the cold .serpent-pipe refrcslifully, — 
She wrapp'd it up ; and for its tomb did choose 

A garden-spot, wherein she laid it by. 
And cover'd it with mould, and o'er it set 
Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wel. 

LIIL 

And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun. 
And she forgot the blue alwve the trees. 

And she forgot the dells where waters run. 
And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze ; 

She had no knowledge when the day vvas done, 
And tlie new morn she saw not : but in peace 

Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, 

And moisten'd it with tears unto the core 

LIV. 
And so she ever fed it with thin tears, 

Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, 
So that it smelt more balmy than its peers 
Of Basil-tufLs in Florence ; for i: drew 
Nature besides, and life, from htmian fears, 

From the fast-mouldering head there shut from 
view : 
So that the jewel, safely easketed. 
Came forth, and iti perfumed leafits spread- 
57.) 



44 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



LV. 

O Melancholy, linger here awhile ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despond ingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, 

Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us — O sigh ! 
Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile ; 

Lift dp your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily. 
And make a pale light in your cypress glooms. 
Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. 

LVL 

Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, 

From the deep throat of sad Melpomene ! 

Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, 
.'^iid touch the strings into a mystery ; 

Sound mournfully upon the winds and low,* 
For simple Isabel is soon to be 

Among the dead : she withers, like a palm 

Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. 

LVII. 

O leave the palm to wither by itself; 

Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour! — 
It may not be — those Baalites of pelf. 

Her brethren, noted the continual shower 
From her dead eyes ; and many a curious elf, 

Among her kindred, wonder'd that such dower 
Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside 
By one mark'd out to be a Noble's bride. 

LVIII. 
And, furthermore, her brethren wonder'd much 

Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, 
And why it flourish'd, as by magic touch ; 

Greatly they wonder'd what the thing might mean : 
They could not surely give belief, that such 

A very nothing would have power to wean 
Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, 
And even remembrance of her love's delay. 

LIX. 

Therefore they watch'd a time when they might sift 
This hidden whim ; and long they watch'd in vain ; 

For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift. 
And seldom felt she any hunger-pain ; 



And when she left, she hurried back, as swift 

As bird on wing to breast its eggs again ; 
And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there 
Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. 

LX. 

Yet they contrived to steal the Basil-pot, 

And to examine it in secret place : 
The thing was vile with green and livid spot. 

And yet they knew it was Lorenzo's face : 
The guerdon of their murder they had got. 

And so left Florence in a moment's space. 
Never to turn again. — Away they went. 
With blood upon their heads, to banishment. 

LXI. 

O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away ! 

O Music, Music, breathe despondingly ! 
O Echo, Echo, on some other day, 

From isles Lethean, sigh to us — sigh ! 
Spirits of grief, sing not your " Well-a-way ! " 

For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die ; 
Will die a death too lone and incomplete. 
Now they have ta'en away her Basil sweet. 

LXII. 

Piteous she look'd on dead and senseless things, 

Asking for her lost Basil amorously ; 
And with melodious chuckle in the strings 

Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry 
After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, 

To ask him where her Basil was ; and why 
'Twas hid from her: " For cruel 'tis," said she, 
" To steal my Basil-pot away from me." 

Lxin. 

And so she pined, and so she died forlorn. 

Imploring for her Basil to the last. 
No heart was there in Florence but did mourn 

In pity of her love, so overcast. 
And a sad ditty of this story born 

From mouth to mouth through all the country pass'd 
Still is the burthen sung — " O cruelty, 
To steal my Basil-pot away from me I " 



mxt iSlje oC St* ^flueKsi^ 



I. 

St. Agnes* Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold : 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath. 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, wiihout a death, 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he 
saith. 

II. 
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riselh from his knees. 
And back reiurnetli, meager, barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 



3 



The sculptured dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
Imprison'd in black, purL'atorial rails : 
Knij'hts, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

III. 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor ; 
But no — already had his death-bell rung ; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung; 
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : 
Another way he went, and .soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve. 
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to griev* 
57G 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



45 



IV. 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft ; 
And so it chanced, for many a door was wide. 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide : 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowmg to receive a thousand guests: 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Slared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on 
their breasts. 



I At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array. 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new stuff 'd, in youth, with triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day. 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 

1 As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 

VI. 

1 They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young Virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 

[ If ceremonies due they did aright ; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire. 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white ; 
Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 

Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 

VII. 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline : 
The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
She scarcely heard : her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw^ many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all : in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retired ; not cool'd by high disdain. 
But she saw not : her heart was otherwhere : 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 

VIII. 

She danced along with vague, regardless eyes. 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short : 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand : she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hale, and scorn, 
Hoodvvink'd with fairy fancy ; all amort. 
Save to St. Agnes, and her lambs unsiiorn. 
And all the bhss to be before to-morrow morn. 

IX. 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours. 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; 
'erchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such 
things have been. 



He ventures in : let no buzz'd whisper tell : 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart. Love's fcv'rous citadel . 
For him, those chaml)ers held barbarian hordes. 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage : not one breast afllbrds 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 

XT. 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland : 
He startled her : but soon she knew his face. 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand. 
Saying, "Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; 
They are all here to-night, the whole bloodlliirsty 
race! 

XIL 

" Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarfish Hilde- 

brand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land : 
Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs — Alas me! flit! 
Flit like a ghost away." — "Ah, gossip dear. 
We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit. 
And tell me how" — " Good Saints ! not here, not 
here ; 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier.' 

xin. 

He follow'd through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume, 
And as slie mutter'd " Well-a — wcll-a-day!" 
He found him in a little moonlit room. 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may .see. 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV. 
" St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve — 
Yet men will murder n]x>n holy days: 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve. 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so : it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help ! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
This very night : good angels her deceive ! 
But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle lime to grieve." 

XV. 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who kecpcth closed a wondrou.s riddle-book. 
As spectacled she sits in chimney-nook. 
But .soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantmenta cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 
577 



46 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XVI. 
Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot : then dolh he propose 
A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : 
" A cruel man and impious thou art : 
Sweet lady, let her play, and sleep, and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! — I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst 
seem." 

XVII. 
" I will not harm licr, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer. 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
Or look with ruflian passion in her face : 
Good Angela, believe nic by these tears ; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake, with liorrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
And beard them, thougii they be more fang'd than 
wolves and bears." 

XVIII. 
•' Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing. 
Whose passing-bell may, ere the midnight, toll ; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. 
Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining, doth she 

bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

XIX. 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he miglit see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet. 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 
Never on such a night have lovere met. 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 

XX. 

" It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame : 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored tlicre 
Quickly on this feast-night : by tlie tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see : no time to spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience ; kneel in prayer 
The while : Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed. 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 

XXI. 

So saying she hobbled off with busy fear. 
Tlie lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd ; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her ; vv'iih aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last. 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste ; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 



XXII. 

Iler falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeUng for the stair. 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware : 
With silver taper's light, and pious care. 
She tiirn'd, and down the aged go.ssip led 
To a safe level matting. Kow prepare, 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd 
and fled. 

XXIII. 
Out went the taper as she hurried in ; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died : 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide : 
No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide! 
But to her heart, he;- heart was voluble. 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stilled, in her dell. 



XXIV. 

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was. 
All garlanded with carven imageries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes. 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens 
and kings. 

XXV. 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon : 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint : 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest. 
Save wings, for heaven; — Porpliyro grew faint: 
She luielt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 

XXVI. 

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done. 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees ; 
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; 
Loosens her fragrant boddice ; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees : 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed. 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees. 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed. 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

XXVII. 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay. 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away ; 
Flown, like a thought, until tlie morrow-day ; 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain ; 
Clasp'd like a missal wliere swart Paynims pray , 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain. 
As though a rose should shut, and he a bud again. 
578 



THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. 



47 



XXVIII. 

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
To waiie into a slumberous tenderness ; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
And breathed himself: then from the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness. 
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, slept, 

And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — ^how fast 
she slept. 

XXIX. 
Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — 
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet ! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet. 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — 

The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

XXX. 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep. 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd. 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucid syrops, tinct with cinnamon ,• 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 

XXXI. 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver : sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night. 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite : 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agiies' sake. 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 

XXXII. 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 
By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm 
Impossible to melt as iced stream : 
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; 
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies : 
It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a stedfast spell his lady's eyes ; 
So mused awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

XXXIII. 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be. 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute. 
In Provence call'd, '* La belle dame sans mercy ;" 
Close to her ear touching the melody ; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she ulter'd a soft moan : 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone : 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured 
stone. 



XXXIV. 
Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep : 
There was a painful change, that nigh expeli'd 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep. 
At which fair Madeline began to weep. 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 

XXXV. 

" Ah, Porphyro ! " said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 
How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! 
Give me tliat voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! 

leave me not in this eternal woe. 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 

XXXVI. 
Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose. 
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odor with the violet, — 
Solution sweet : meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes ; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
'Tis dark : the iced gusis still rave and beat : 
" No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? 

1 curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; — 

A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruiied wing." 

XXXVIII. 

"My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest ? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed ? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel." 

XXXIX. 

"Hark! 'tis an elfin-storm from fairy-land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : 
Arise — arise ! the morning is at hand ; — 
The bloated wassailers will never heed : — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to sec, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : 
Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be. 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for tliee." 
579 



48 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears — 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found, — 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-dropp'd lamp was flickering by each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar ; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 

XLI. 
They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ; 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl. 
With a huge empty flagon by his side : 



The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns : 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide : — 
The chains lie silent on the foot-worn stones , 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 

XLII. 

And they are gone : ay, ages long ago 
These lovers fled away into the storm. 
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe. 
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 
Of witch, and demon, and large coflin-worm. 
Were long be-nighlmared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-twitch'd, with meagre face deform , 
The Beadsman, after thousand avcs told. 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 



>i>|)evton*' 



BOOK I. 



Deep in the shady sadness of a vale 

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn, 

Far from the fiery noon, and eve's one star, 

Sat gray-hair'd Saturn, quiet as a stone. 

Still as the silence round about his lair ; 

Forest on forest hung about his head 

Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there, 

Not so much life as on a summer's day 

Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass, 

But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest. 

A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more 

By reason of his fallen divinity 

Spreading a shade : the Naiad 'mid her reeds 

Press'd her cold finger closer to her lips. 

Along the margin-sand large foot-marks went, 
No further than to where his feet had stray'd. 
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground 
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead, 
Unsceptred ; and his realmless eyes were closed ; 
While his bovv'd head seem'd list'ning to the Earth, 
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet. 

It seem'd no force could wake him from his place 
But there came one, who with a kindred hand 
Touch'd his wide shoulders, after bending low 
With reverence, though to one who knew it not. 
She was a Goddess of the infant world ; 
By her in stature the tall Amazon 
Had stood a pigmy's height : she would have ta'en 
Achilles by the hair and bent his neck ; 



* If any apolo^n- be thought necessary for the appear 
ance of the unfinishpil pnem of Hyperion, the publishers 
beg to state that they alone are responsible, as it was prmt- 
ed at their particular request, and contrary to the wish of 
the author. The poem was intended to have been of 
equal length with Endymion, but the reception given to 
that work discouraged the author from proceeding. 



Or with a finger stay'd Ixion's wheel. 
Her face was large as that of Memphian sphinx, 
Pedestall'd haply in a palace-court. 
When sages look'd to Egypt for their lore. 
But oh! how unlike marble was that face: 
How beautiful, if Sorrow had not made 
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty's self. 
There was a listening fear in her regard, 
As if calamity had but began ; 
As if the vanward clouds of evil days 
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear 
Was with its stored thunder laboring up. 
One hand she press'd upon that aching spot 
Where beats the human heart, as if just there, 
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain : 
The other upon Saturn's bended neck 
She laid, and to the level of his ear 
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake 
In solemn tenor and deep organ-tone : 
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongu 
Would come in these like accents ; O how frail 
To that large utterance of the early Gods ! 
" Saturn, look up ! — though wherefore, poor old King? 
I have no comfort for thee, no not one : 
I cannot say, ' O wherefore sleepest thou ? 
For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth 
Knows thee not, thus afllicted, for a God ; 
And ocean too, with all its solemn noise, 
Has from thy sceptra pass'd ; and all the air 
Is emptied of thine hoary majesty. 
Thy thunder, conscious of the new command, 
Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house ; 
And thy sharp lightning in unpractised hands 
Scorches and burns our once serene domain. 
O aching time ! O moments big as years ! 
All as ye pass swell out the monstrous truth. 
And press it so upon our weary griefs 
That unbelief has not a space to breathe. 
Saturn, sleep on :— thoughtless, why did 1 
Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude ? 
Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes ? 
Saturn, sleep on ! while at thy feet I weep." 
580 



HYPERION. 



49 



As when, upon a tranced summer-night, 
Those green^robed senators of mighty woods, 
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, 
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir, 
Save from one gradual solitary gust 
Which comes upon the silt'nce, and dies ofl^ 
As if the ebbing air had but one wave : 
So came these words and went ; the while in tears 
She touch'd her fair large forehead to the ground, 
Just where her falling hair might be outspread 
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet. 
One moon, with alternation slow, had shed 
Her silver seasons four upon the night, 
And still these two were postured motionless, 
Like natural sculpture in cathedral cavern; 
The frozen God slill couchant on the earth. 
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet ; 
Until at length old Saturn lifted up 
His faded eyes, and saw his kingdom gone, 
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place. 
And that fair kneeling CJoddess ; and then spake 
As with a palsied tongue, and while his beard 
Shook horrid with such nspen-malady : 
"O tender spouse of gold Hyperion, 
Thea, I leel thee ere I see thy face ; 
Look up, and let me see our doom in it ; 
Look up, and tell m.e if this feeble shape 
Is Saturn's ; tell me, if thou hear'st the voice 
Of Saturn ; tell me, if this wrinkling brow, 
Kaked and bare of its great diadem, 
Peers like the front of Saturn. Who had power 
To make me desolate ? whence came the strength ? 
How was it nurtured to such bursting forth. 
While Fate seem'd strangled in my nervous grasp ? 
But it is so ; and I am sniolher'd up, 
And buried from all godlike exercise 
Of influence benign on planets pale. 
Of admonitions to the winds and seas, 
Of peaceful sway above man's harvesting, 
And all those acts which Deity supreme 

, Doth ease its heart of love in. — I am gone 

I Away from my oviu bosom : I have left 
My strong identity, my real self, 
Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit 
Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search ! 
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round 
Upon all space : space slarr'd, and lorn of light > 

I Space rcgion'd with life-air : and barren void j 
Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell — 

I Search, Thea, search ! and tell me, if thou seest 
A certain shape or shadow, making way 

' With wings or chariot fierce to repossess 
A heaven he lost erewhile : it must — it must 

• Be of ripe progress — Saturn must be King. 
Yes, there must be a golden victory ; 

j There must be Gods thi-own down, and trumpets 
blown 

I Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival 

I Upon the gold clouds metropolitan, 

( Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir 
Of strings in hollow shells ; and there shall be 
Beautiful things made new, fijr the surprise 
Of the sky-children; I will give command: 
Thea! Thea! where is Saturn ? " 

Tliis passion lifted liim upon his feet, 
And made his hands to struggle in the air, 



His Druid locks to shake and ooze with sweat, 

His eyes to fever out, his voice to cease. 

He stood, and heard not Thea's sol)bing deep; 

A little time, and then again he snatch'd 

Utterance thus : — " But cannot I create ? 

Cannot I form ? Cannot I fashion forth 

Another world, another universe. 

To overbear and crumble this to naught ? 

Where is another chaos ? Where ? " — That won] 

Found way unto Olympus, and made quake 

The rebel three. Thea was startled up. 

And in her bearing was a sort of hope. 

As thus she quick-voiced spake, yet full of awe. 

" This cheers our fallen house: come to our friends 

Saturn ! come away, and give them heart ; 

1 know the covert, for thence came I hither." 
Thus brief; then with beseeching eyes she went 
With backward footing through the shade a space . 
He follow'd, and she turn'd to lead the way 
Through aged boughs, that yielded like the mist 
Which eagles cleave, upmounting from their nest. 

Meanwhile in other realms big tears were shed, 
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe. 
Too hu(re for mortal tongue or pen of scribe : 
The Titans fierce, self-hid, or prison-bound, 
Groan'd for the old allegiance once more. 
And listen'd in sharp pain for Saturn's voice. 
But one of the whole maTnmoih-brood still kept 
His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty ; — 
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire 
Still sat, still snufFd the incense, teeming up 
From man to the sun's God ; yet unsccure : 
For as among us mortals omens drear 
Fright and perplex, so also shndder'd he — 
.\ot at dog's howl, or gloom-bird's hated screech. 
Or the familiar visiting of one 
Upon the first toll of his passing-bell, 
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp ; 
But horrors, portion 'd to a giant nerve, 
Ol't made Hyperion ache. His palace bright, 
Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold. 
And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks. 
Glared a blood-red through all its thousand courts, 
Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries ; 
And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds 
Hush'd angerly : while sometimes eagles' wings, 
Unseen before by Gods or wondering men, 
Darken'd the place ; and neighing steeds were heard, 
\ot heard before by Gods or wondering men. 
Also, when he would tasle the spicy wreaths 
Of incense, breathed aloft from .'•acred hills, 
Instead of sweets, his ample palate took 
Savor of jxiisonous brass and metal sick : 
And so, wiien harbor'd in the sleepy west. 
After the full completion of fair day, — 
For rest divine upon exalted couch, 
And slumber in the arms of melody. 
He i)aced away the pleasant hours of ease 
With stride colossal, on from hall to hall ; 
While far within each aisle and deep recess. 
His winged minions in close clusters stood. 
Amazed and full of fear ; like anxious men 
Who on wide plains gather in panting troops. 
When earthquakes jar their battlements and tovren. 
Even now, wliile Saturn, roused from icy trance, 
581 



50 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Went step for step with Thea through the woods, 
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear, 
Came slope upon the threshold of the west; 
Then, as was wont, his palace-door flew ope 
In smoothed silence, save what solemn tubes, 
Blown by the serious Zephyrs, gave of sweet 
And wandering sounds, slow-breathed melodies ; 
And like a rose in vermeil tint and shape, 
In fragrance soft, and coolness to the eye, 
That inlet to severe magnificence 
Stood full-blown, for the God to enter in. 

He enter'd, but he enter'd full of wrath ; 
His flaming robes slream'd out beyond his heels, 
And gave a roar, as if of earihly (ire. 
That scared away the meek eiliereal Hours 
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared, 
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault, 
Through bovvers of fragrant and enwreathed light, 
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades. 
Until he reach'd I he great main cupola ; 
There standing fierce beneath, he stamp'd his foot, 
And from the basements deep to the liigh towers 
Jarr'd his own golden region ; and before 
The quavering thunder thereupon had ceased, 
His voice leapt out, despite of godlike curb. 
To this result: "O dreams of day and night! 
O monstrous forms ! O effigies of pain ! 
O spectres busy in a cold, cold gloom! 

lank-ear'd Phantoms of black-weeded pools ! 
Why do I know ye ? why have I seen ye ? why 
Is my eternal essence thus distraught 

To see and to behold these horrors new ? 
Saturn is fallen, am I too to fall ? 
Am I to leave this haven of my rest. 
This cradle of my glory, this soft clime. 
This calm luxuriance of blissful light. 
These crystalline pavilions, and pure fanes, 
Of all my lucent empire ? It is left 
Deserted, void, nor any haunt of mine. 
The blaze, the splendor, and the symmetry, 

1 cannot see — but darkness, death and darkness. 
Even here, into my centre of repose, 

The shady visions come to domineer. 

Insult, and blind, and stifle up my pomp — 

Fall ! — Mo, by Tellus and her briny robes ! 

Over the fiery frontier of my realms 

I will advance a terrible right arm 

Shall scare that infant thunderer, rebel Jove, 

And bid old Saturn take his tiirone again." — 

He spake, and ceased, the while a heavier threat 

Held struggle with his throat, but came not forth ; 

For as in theatres of crowded men 

Hubbub increases more they call out " Hush ! " 

So at Hyperion's words the Phantoms pale 

Bestirr'd themselves, thrice horrible and cold ; 

And from the mirror'd level where he stood 

A mist arose, as from a scummy marsh. 

At this, through all his bulk an agony 

Crept gradual, from the feet unto the crown. 

Like a lithe serpent vast and muscular 

Making slow way, with head and neck convulsed 

From overstrained might. Released, he fled 

To the eastern gates, and full six dewy hours 

Before the dawn in season due should blush. 

He breathed fierce breath against the sleepy portals. 



Clear'd them of heavy vapors, burst them wide 
Suddenly on the ocean's chilly streams. 
The planet orb of fire, whereon he rode 
Each day from east to west the heavens through, 
Spun round in sable curtaining of clouds ; 
Not therefore veiled quite, blindfold, and hid, 
But ever and anon the glancing spheres. 
Circles, and arcs, and broad-belting colure, 
Glovv'd through, and wrought upon the muffling dark 
Sweet-shaped lightnings from the nadir deep 
Up to the zenith, — hieroglyphics old. 
Which sages and keen-eyed astrologers 
Then living on the earth, with laboring thought 
Won from the gaze of many ceniuries : 
Now lost, save what we find on remnants huge 
Of stone, or marble swart ; their import gone. 
Their wisdom long since fled. — Two wings this orb 
Possess'd for glory, two (iiir argent wings. 
Ever exalted at the God's approach : 
And now, from forth the gloom their plumes immense 
Rose, one by one, till all outspreaded were ; 
While still the dazzling globe maintain'd eclipse, 
Awaiting for Hyperion's command. 
Fain would he have commanded, fain took throne 
And bid the day begin, if but for change. 
He might not: — No, though a primeval God: 
The sacred seasons might not be disturb'd. 
Therefore the operations of the dawn 
Stay'd in their birth, even as here 'tis toij. 
Those silver wings expanded sisterly. 
Eager to sail their orb; the porches wide 
Open'd upon the dusk demesnes of night 
And the bright Titan, frenzied with new woes, 
Unused to bend, by hard compulsion bent 
His spirit to the sorrow of the time ; 
And all along a dismal rack of clouds. 
Upon the boundaries of day and night. 
He stretch'd himself in grief and radiance faint 
There as he lay, the Heaven with its stars 
Look'd down on him with pity, and the voice 
Of Ccclus, from the universal space. 
Thus whisper'd low and solemn in his ear. 
" O brightest of my children dear, earth-bom 
And sky-engender'd, Son of Mysteries ! 
All unrevealed even to the powers 
Which met at thy creating ! at whose joys 
And palpitations sweet, and pleasures soft, 
I, Coelus, wonder, how they came and whence; 
And at the fruits thereof what shapes they be. 
Distinct, and visible; symbols divine. 
Manifestations of that beauteous life 
Diffused unseen throughout eternal space ; 
Of these new-form'd art thou, oh brightest child! 
Of these, thy brethren and the Goddesses ! 
There is sad feud among ye, and rebellion 
Of son against his sire. I .^aw him fall, 
I saw my first-born tumbled from his throne ! 
To me his arms were spread, to me his voice 
Found way from forth the thunders round his head 
Pale wox I, and in vapors hid my face. 
Art thou, too, near such doom ? vague fear there is. 
For I have seen my sons most unlike Gods. 
Divine ye were created, and divine 
In sad demeanor, solemn, undisturb'd. 
Unruffled, like high Gods, ye lived and ruled : 
Now I behold in you, fear, hope, and wrath ; 
582 



HYPERION. 



61 



Actions of rage and passion ; even as 
I see them, on the mortal world beneath, 
In men who die. — This is the grief, O Son ! 
Sad sign of ruin, sudden dismay, and fall ! 
Yet do thou strive ; as thou art capable. 
As thou canst move alwut, an evident God ; 
And canst oppose to each malignant hour 
Ethereal presence : — I am but a voice ; 
Aly life is but the lile of winds and tides, 
jVo more tlian winds and tides can I avail: — 
But thou canst. — Be tliou iherofbre in the van 
Of circumstance; yea, seize the arrow's barb 
Before the tense string murmur. — To the earth ! 
For there thou wilt lind Saturn, and his woes. 
Meantime I will keep watch on thy bright sun, 
And of thy seasons be a careful nurse." — 
Ere half this region-whisper had couie down, 
Hyperion arose, and on the stars 
Lifted his curved lids, and kept them wide 
Until it ceased ; and still he kept them wide: 
And still they were the same bright, jiatient stars. 
Then with a slow incline of his broad breast, 
Like to a diver in the pearly seas. 
Forward he stoop'd over the airy sliore. 
And plunged all noiseless into the deep night. 



BOOK II. 



Just at the self-same beat of Time's wide wings 
Hyperion slid into the rustled air, 
And Saturn gain'd with Tliea tiiat sad place 
Where Cybele and the bruised Titans mourn'd. 
It was a den where no insulting light 
Could glimmer on their tears; where their own groans 
They felt, but heard not, for the solid roar 
Of thunderous waterfalls and torrents hoarse, 
Pouring a constant bulk, uncertain where. 
Crag jutting forth to crag, and rocks that seem'd 
Ever as if just rising from a sleep, 
Forehead to forehead held their monstrous horns ; 
And thus in tliousand hugest phantasies 
Made a fit roofing to this nest of woe. 
Instead of thrones, hard flint they sat upon, 
Couches of rusrged stone, and slaty ridge 
Stubborn'd witfi iron. Ail were not assembled : 
Some chain'd in torture, and some wandering. 
Cosus, and Gyges, and Briareiis, 
Typhon, and Dolor, and Porphyrion, 
With many more, tlio brawniest in assault. 
Were pent in regions of laborious breath ; 
Dungeon'd in opaque element, to keep 
Their clenched teeth still clench'd, and all their limbs 
Lock'd up like veins of metal, crampt and screw'd ; 
Without a motion, save of their big hearts 
Heaving in pain, and horribly convulsed 
Willi sanguine, feverous, boiling gurge of pulse. 
Mnemosyne was straying in the world ; 
Far from Iier moon had Phosbe wander'd ; 
And many else were free to roam abroad. 
But for the main, here found they covert drear. 
Scarce images of life, one here, one there, 
43 30 



Lay vast and edgeways ; like a dismal cirque 
Of Druid stones, upon a forlorn moor. 
When the chill rain liegins at shut of eve, 
In dull November, and their chancel vault, 
The Heaven itself, is blinded throughout night. 
Each one kept sliroud, nor to liis neighbor gave 
Or word, or look, or action of despair. 
Civ lis was one; his ponderous iron mace 
Lay by iiim, and a shatler'd rib of rock 
Told of his rage, ere he thus sank and pined, 
lapctus another; in iiis gra.sp, 
A serpent's plashy neck ; its barbed tongue 
Squeezed from the gorge, and all its uncurl'd length 
Dead ; and because the creature could not spit 
Its poison in the eyes of conquering Jove. 
Next Coitus: prone he lay, chin uppermost. 
As though in pain ; fiir still upon the flint 
He ground severe his skull, with open mouth 
And eyes at horrid working. Nearest him 
Asia, horn of most enormous Caf, 
Who cost her mother Tclhis keener pangs, 
Tho!igh feminine, tlian any of her sons : 
]\Iore tliougiit tii;in woe was in her dusky face, 
For she was prophesying of her glory; 
And in lier wide imagination stood 
Pahn-sliaded temples, and high rival fanes. 
By Oxiis or in Ganges' sacred isles. 
Even as Ilojie ujioii her anchor leans, 
So leant she, not so fair, upon a tusk 
Shed from the broadest of her elephants. 
Above her, on a crag's unea.sy shelve, 
Upon his elbow raised, all prostrate else, 
Shadow'd Enceladus; once tame and mild 
As grazing ox unvvorried in the meads; 
Now tiger-passion'd, lion-ihoughted, wroth, 
He meditated, plotted, and even now 
Was hurling mountains in liiat second war. 
Not long delay'd, that scared the younger Gods 
To hide themselve.s in forms of beast and bird. 
Not far hence Atlas; and beside him prone 
Phorcus, the sire of Gorgons. Neighbor'd close 
Oeeanus, and Tethys, in whose lap 
Sobb'd Clymene among her tangled hair, 
in midst of all lay Themis, at the feet 
Of Ops the queen all clouded round from sight; 
No shape distingiiishal)le, more than when 
Thick night conlijunds the pine-tops with the clouds: 
And many else whose names may not be told. 
For when the Muse's wings are air-ward spread. 
Who sliall delay lier fiighl ? And she must cliant 
Of Saturn, and his guide, wiio now had climb'd 
With damp and slippery footing from a depth 
More horrid still. Above a sombre cliff 
Their heads appear'd, and up their stature grew 
Till on the level heiglit their steps found ea.se : 
Then Thea spread abroad her trembling arms 
U|)oa the precinci.s of this nest of pain. 
And sidelong fix'd her eye on Saturn's face : 
There saw she direst strife ; the supreme God 
At war with all the frailty of grief. 
Of rage, of fear, anxiety, revenge, 
Remorse, spleen, hope, but most of all despair. 
Against these plagues he strove in vain; for Fate 
Had pour'd a mortal oil upon his head, 
A disanointing poison : so that Thea, 
AfTrighted. kept her still, and let him pass 
First onwards in, among the fallen tribe. 
583 



52 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As wilh us mortiil men, the laden heart 
Is persecuted more, and fever'd more, 
When it is nigliiiig lo the moarnCul house 
Where other hearts are sick of the same bruise ; 
So Saturn, as he vvalk'd into the midst, 
Felt faint, and would have sunk among the rest, 
But that he met Enceladus's eye. 
Whose mightiness, and awe of him, at once 
Came like an inspiration ; and he shouted, 
"Titans, beliold your God!" at which some groan'd; 
Some started on their feet ; some also shouted ; 
Some wept, some wail'd — all bovv'd with reverence ; 
And Ops, uplifting her black folded veil, 
Show'd her pale cheeks, and all her forehead wan, 
Her eye-brows thin and jet, and hollow eyes. 
There is a roaring in the bleak-grown pines 
When Winter lids his voice ; there is a noise 
Among immortals when a God gives sign. 
With hushing finger, how he means to load 
His tongue with the full weight of uttorless thought, 
Wilh thunder, and with music, and with pomp: 
Such noise is like the roar of bleak-grown pines ; 
Which, when it ceases in this mountain'd world, 
No other sound succeeds ; but ceasing here. 
Among these fallen, Saturn's voice therefrom 
Grew up like organ, that begins anew 
lis strain, when other harmonies, stopt short, 
Leave the diim'd air vibrating silverly. 
Thus grew it up — " Not in my own sad breast. 
Which is its own great judge and searcher out, 
Can I find reason why ye should be thus: 
Not in the legends of the first of days, 
Studied from that old spirit-leaved book 
Which starry Uranus with finger bright 
Saved from the shores of darkness, when the waves 
Low-ebb'd still hid it up in shallow gloom ; — 
And the which book ye know I ever kept 
For my firm-based footstool : — Ah, infirm ! 
Not there, nor in sign, symbol, or portent 
Of element, earth, water, air, and fire, — 
At war, at peace, or inter-quarrelling 
One against one, or two, or three, or all 
Each several one against the other three, 
As fire with air loud warring when rain-floods 
Drown both, and press them both against earth's face. 
Where, finding sulpliur, a quadruple wrath 
Unhinges the poor world ; — not in tiiat strife, 
Wherefrom I take strange lore, and read it deep. 
Can I find reason why ye should be thus : 
No, nowhere can unriddle, though I search, 
And pore on Nature's universal scroll *j . 

Even to swooning, why ye, Divinities, 
The first-born of all shaped and palpable Gods, 
Should cower beneath what, in comparison, 
Is untremendous might. Yet ye are here, 
O'erwhelm'd, and spurn'd, and batter'd, ye are here! 
O Titans, shall I say 'Arise!' — Ye groan : 
Shall I say ' Crouch ! ' — Ye groan. What can I then? 
O Heaven wide ! O unseen parent dear ! 
Wiiat can I ? Tell me, all ye brethren Gods, 
How we can war, how engine our great wrath ! 

speak your counsel now, for Saturn's ear 
Is all a-hunger'd. Thou, Oceanus, 
Ponderest high and deep ; and in thy face 

1 see, astonied, that severe content 

Which comes of thought and musing: give us help!" 



So ended Saturn ; and the God of the Sea, 
Sophist and sage, from no Athenian grove, 
But cogitation in his watery shades, 
Arose, with locks not oozy, and began, 
In murmurs, which his first-endeavoring tongue 
Caught infant-like from the far-foamed sands. 
"O ye, whom wrath consumes! who, passion-stung 
Writhe at defeat, and nurse your agonies! 
Shut up your senses, stifle up your ears, 
My voice is not a bellows unto ire. 
Yet listen, ye who will, whilst I bring proof 
How ye, perforce, must be content to stoop : 
And in the proof much comfort will I give, 
If ye will take that comfort in its truth. 
We fall by course of Nature's law, not force 
Of thunder, or of Jove. Great Saturn, thou 
Hast sifted well the atom-universe ; 
But for this reason, that thou art the King 
And only blind from sheer supremacy. 
One avenue was shaded from thine eyes. 
Through which I wander'd to eternal truth. 
And first, as thou wast not the first of powers. 
So art thou not the last ; it cannot be. 
Thou art not the beginning nor the end. 
From chaos and parental darkness came 
Liglit, the first-fruits of that intestine broil, 
That sullen ferment, Avhich for wondrous ends 
Was ripening in itself The ripe hour came. 
And with it light, and light, engendering 
Upon its own producer, fortiiwith touch'd 
The whole enormous matter into life. 
Upon that very hour, our parentage. 
The Heavens and the Earth, were manifest : 
Then thou first-born, and we the giant-race. 
Found ourselves ruling new and beauteous realms. 
Now comes the pain of truth, to whom 'tis pain, 
O folly ! for to bear all naked truths. 
And to envisage circumstance, all calm, 
That is the top of sovereignty. Mark well ! 
As Heaven and Earth are fairer, fairer far 
Than Chaos and blank Darkness, though once chiefs ; 
And as we show beyond that Heaven and Earth 
In form and shape compact and beautiful, 
In will, in action free, companionship. 
And thousand other signs of purer life ; 
So on our heels a fresh perfection treads, 
A power more strong in beauty, born of us 
And fated to excel us, as we pass 
In glory that old Darkness : nor are we 
Thereby more conquer'd than by us the rule 
Of shapeless Chaos. Say, doth the dull soil 
Quarrel with the proud forests it hath fed. 
And fe(>deth still, more comely than itself? 
Can it deny the chiefdom of green groves? 
Or shall the tree be envious of the dove 
Because it cooeth, and hath snowy wings 
To wander wherewithal and find its joys ? 
We are such forest-trees, and our fair boughs 
Have bred forth, not pale solitary doves. 
But eagles golden-feather'd, who do tower 
Above us in their beauty, and must reign 
In right thereof; for 'tis the eternal law 
That first in beauty should be first in might: 
Yea, by that law, another race may drive 
Our conquerors to mourn as we do now. 
Have ye beheld the yotmg God of the Seas, 
584 



^ 



HYPERION. 



53 



My dispossessor? Have ye seen his face? 
Have ye beheld his chariot, foain'd along 
By noble-winged creatures he hath made ? 
I saw him on the calmed waters scud, 
With such a glow of beauty in his eyes, 
That it enforced me to bid sad farewell 
To all my empire : farewell sad I took, 
And hither came, to see how dolorous fate 
Had wrought upon ye ; and how I might best 
Give consolation in this woe extreme. 
Receive the truth, and let it be your balm." 

Whether through pozed conviction, or disdain, 
They guarded silence, when Oceanus 
Left murmuring, what deepest thought can tell ? 
But so it was, none answer'd for a space, 
Save one whom none regarded, Clymene : 
And yet she answer'd not, only complain'd. 
With hectic lips, and eyes up-looking mild. 
Thus wording timidly among the fierce : 
" O Father ! I am here the simplest voice, 
And all my knowledge is that joy is gone, 
And this thing woe crept in among our hearts, 
There to remain for ever, as I fear : 
I would not bode of evil, if I thought 
So weak a creature could turn off tlie help 
Which by just right should come of mighty Gods ; 
Yet let me tell my sorrow, let me tell 
Of what I heard, and how it made me weep, 
And know that we had parted from all hope. 
I stood upon a shore, a pleasant shore, 
Where a sweet clime was breathed from a land 
Of fragrance, quietness, and trees, and flowers. 
Full of calm joy it was, as I of grief; 
Too full of joy and soft delicious warmth ; 
So that I felt a movement in my heart 
To chide, and to reproach that solitude 
With songs of misery, music of our woes ; 
And sat me down, and took a mouthed shell 
And murmur'd into it, and made melody — 

melody no more I for while 1 sang, 
And with poor skill let pass into the breeze 
The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand 
Just opposite, an island of the sea. 

There came enchantment with the shifting wind, 
That did both drown and keep alive my ears. 

1 threw my shell away upon the sand, 
And a wave fill'd it, as my sense was fdl'd 
With that new blissful golden melody. 

A living death was in each gush of sounds, 

Each family of rapturous hurried notes. 

That fell, one after one, yet all at once. 

Like pearl beads dropping sudden from their string 

And then another, then another strain. 

Each like a dove leaving its olive perch, 

With music wing'd instead of silent plumes. 

To hover round my head, and make me sick 

Of joy and grief at once. Grief overcame. 

And I was stopping up my frantic ears, 

When, past all hindrance of my trembling hands, 

A voice came sweeter, sweeter than all tune, 

And still it cried, 'Apollo I young Apollo ! 

The morning-bright Apollo! young Apollo I' 

I fled, it follow'd me, and cried, 'Apollo I' 

O Father, and O Brethren ! had ye felt 

Those pains of mine I O Saturn, hadst thou felt, 



Ye would not call this too indulged tongue 
Presumptuous, in thus venturing to be heard!" 



So far her voice flovv'd on, like tin orous brook 
That, lingering along a pebbled coast, 
Doth fear to meet the sea : but sea it met. 
And shudder'd ; for the overwhelming voice 
Of liuge Enccladus swallow'd it in wrath: 
The ponderous syllables, like sullen waves 
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks, 
Came tooming thus, while still upon his arm 
He lean'd ; not rising, from supreme contempt. 
" Or shall we listen to the over-wise. 
Or to the over-fooli.sh giant, Gods ? 
Not thunderbolt on thunderbolt, till all 
That rebel Jove's whole armory were spent. 
Not world on world upon these shouldere piled, 
Could agonize me more than baby-words 
In midst of this dethronement horrible. 
Speak! roar! shout! yell! ye sleepy Titans all. 
Do ye forget the blows, the buffets vile ? 
Are ye not smitten by a youngling arm ? 
Dost lliou forget, sham Monarch of the Waves, 
Tliy scalding in the seas? What! have I roused 
Your spleens with so few simple words as these ? 
O joy ! for now I see ye are not lost : 
joy ! for now I see a thousand eyes 
Wide glaring for revenge!" — As this he said, 
He lifted up his stature vast, and stood. 
Still without intermission speaking thus : 
" Now ye are flames, I '11 tell you how to burn. 
And purge the ether of our enemies ; 
How to feed fierce the crooked slings of fire. 
And singe away the swollen clouds of Jove, 
Stifling that puny essence in its tent. 
O let him feel the evil he hath done ,■ 
For though I scorn Oceanus's lore. 
Much ])ain have 1 for more than loss of realms 
The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled; * 
Those days, all innocent of scathing war, 
When all the fair Existences of heaven 
Came open-eyed to guess what we would speak : — 
That was before our brows were taught to frown. 
Before our lips knew else but solemn sounds ; 
That was before we knew the winged thing, 
Viclory, might be lost, or might be won. 
And be ye mindful tliat Hyperion, 
Our brightest brother, still is undisgraced — 
Hyperion, lo ! his radiance is here '. " 
. y 
All eyes were on Enceladus's face, 
And they beheld, while still Hyperion's name 
Flew from his lips up to the vaulted rocks, 
A pallid gleam across his features stern : 
Not savage, for he saw full many a God 
Wroth as himself He look'd upon them all. 
And in each face he saw a gleam of light. 
But splcndider in Saturn's, whose hoar locks 
Shon6 like the bubbling foam about a keel 
When the prow swecfw into a midnight cove. 
In pale and silver silence they remaiu'd. 
Till suddenly a splendor, like the morn. 
Pervaded all the beetling gloomy steeps. 
All the sad spaces of oblivion. 
And every gulf, and every chasm old, 
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54 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And every height, and every sullen depth, 

Voiceless, or hoarse with loud tormented streams : 

And all the everlasting cataracts. 

And all tiie headlong torrents far and near. 

Mantled before in darkness and huge shade, 

Now saw the light and made it terrible. 

It was Hyperion : — a granite peak 

His bright feet touch'd, and there he stay'd to view 

The misery his brilliance had betray 'd 

To the most hateful seeing of itself. 

Golden his hair of short jNumidian curl, 

Regal his shape majestic, a vast shade 

In midst of liis own brightness, like the bulk 

Of Memnon's image at the set of sun 

To one who travels from the dusking East : 

Sighs, too, as mournful as that Memnon's harp, 

He utter'd, while his hands, contemplative. 

He press'd together, and in silence stood. 

Despondence seized again the fallen Gods 

At sight of the dejected King of Day, 

And many hid their faces li-om the light : 

But fierce Enceladus sent Ibnh his eyes 

Among the brotherhood ; and, at their glare, 

Uprose liipetus, and Creiis too. 

And Phorcus, sea-born, and together strode 

To where he towered on his eminence. 

There those four shouted forth old Saturn's name ; 

Hyperion from the peak loud answered, " Saturn '. " 

Saturn sat near the Mother of the Gods, 

In whose face was no joy, though all the Gods 

Gave from their hollow throats the name of "Saturn !' 



BOOK III. 



Thus m alternate uproar and sad peace. 

Amazed were those Titans utterly. 

O leave them. Muse ! O leave them to their woes ! 

For thou art weak to sing such tumults dire : 

A solitary sorrow best belits 

Thy lips, and antheming a lonely grief. 

Leave them, O Muse ! for thou anon wilt find 

Many a fallen old Divinity 

W^andering in vain alxiut bewilder'd shores. 

Meantime touch piously the Delphic harp. 

And not a wind of heaven but will breathe 

In aid soft warble from the Dorian flute ; 

For lo ! 'tis lljr the Father of all verse. 

Flush every thing that hath a vermeil hue. 

Let the rose glow intense and warm the air, 

And let the clouds of even and of morn 

Float in voluptuous fleeces o'er the hills; 

Let the red wine within the goblet boil, 

Cold as a bubbling well; let faint-lipp'd shells, 

On sands, or in great deeps, vermilion turn 

Through all their labyrinths ; and let the maid 

Blush keenly, as with some warm kiss surprised. 

Chief isle of the embovver'd Cyclades, 

Rejoice, O Delos, with thine olives green. 

And poplars, and lawn-shading palms, and beech, 

In which the Zephyr breathes the loudest song. 

And hazels thick, dark-stemm'd beneath the shade: 

Apollo is once more the golden theme ! 



Where was he, when the Giant of the Sun 
Stood bright, amid the sorrow of his peers ? 
Together had he left his mother fair 
And his twin-sister sleeping in their bower, 
And in the morning twilight wander'd forth 
Beside the osiers of a rivulet. 
Full ankle-deep in lilies of the vale. 
The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars 
Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush 
Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle 
There was no covert, no retired cave 
Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves, 
Though scarcely heard in many a green recess. 
He listen'd, and he wept, and his bright tears 
Went trickling down tlie golden bow he held. 
Thus with half-shut suffused eyes he stood. 
While from beneath some cumbrous boughs hard by 
With solemn step an awful Goddess came, 
And there was purport in her looks for him. 
Which he with eager guess began to read 
Perplex'd, the wliile melodiously he said : 
" How earnest thou over the unfooted sea ? 
Or hath that antique mien and robed form 
Moved in these vales invisible till now ? 
Sure I have heard those vestments sweeping o'er 
The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone 
In cool mid forest. Surely I have traced 
The rustle of those ample skirts about 
These grassy solitudes, and seen the flowers 
Lift up their heads, as still the whisper pass'd. 
Goddess ! I have beheld those eyes before. 
And their eternal calm, and all that face. 
Or I have dream'd." — " Yes," said the supreme shape 
" Thou hast dream'd of me ; and awaking up 
Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side. 
Whose strings touch'd liy thy fingers, all the vast 
Unwearied ear of the whole universe 
Listen'd in pain and pleasure at the birth 
Of such new tuneful wonder. Is't not strange 
That thou shouldst weep, so gifted ? Tell me, youtlj 
What sorrow thou canst feel ; for I am sad 
When thou dost shed a tear : explain thy griefs 
To one who in tliis lonely isle hath been 
The watcher of lliy sleep and hours of life. 
From the young day when first thy infimt hand 
Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till thine arm 
Could bend that bow heroic to all times. 
Show thy heart's secret to an ancient Power 
Who hath foreaken old and sacred thrones 
For projihecies of thee, and for the sake 
Of loveliness new-born." — Apollo then. 
With sudden scrutiny and gloomless eyes. 
Thus answer'd, while his white melodious throat 
Throbb'd with the .syllables. — " Mnemosyne ! 
Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how ; 
Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest ? 
Why should I strive to show what from thy lips 
Would come no mystery ? For me, dark, dark. 
And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes : 
I strive to search wherefore I am so sad, 
Until a melancholy numbs my limbs ; 
And then upon the grass I sit, and moan. 
Like one who once had wings. — O why should I 
Feel cursed and thwarted, when the liegeless air 
Yields to my step aspirant ? why should I 
Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet ? 
Goddess benign ! point forth some unknown thinj 
Are there not other regions than this isle ? 
586 



i 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



55 



What are the stars ? There is the sun, the sun ! 

And the most patient brilliance of the moon ! 

And stars by thousands ! Point me out the way 

To any one particular beauteous star, 

And 1 will flit into it with my lyre. 

And make its silvery splendor pant with bliss. 

I have heard the cloudy thunder: Where is power? 

Whose hand, whose essence, what divinity 

Makes this alarm in the elements, 

While I here idle listen on the shores 

In fearless yet in aching ignorance ? 

O tell me, lonely Goddess I by thy harp, 

That waileth every morn and eventide. 

Tell me why thus I rave, about these groves ! 

Muto thou remainest — Mute ? yet I can read 

A wondrous lesson in thy silent face : 

Knowledge enormous makes a God of me. 

Names, deeds, gray legends, dire events, rebellions. 

Majesties, sovran voices, agonies. 

Creations, and destroyings, all at once 

Potu" into the wide hollows of my brain, 



And deify me, as if some blithe wine. 

Or bright elixir peerless I had drunk. 

And so become immortal." — Thus the God, 

While his enkindled eyes, with level glance 

Beneath his white soft temples, stedfast kept 

Trembling with light upon Mnemosyne. 

Soon wild commotions shook him, and made flush 

All the immortal fairness of his limbs: 

Most like the struggle at the gate of death ; 

Or liker still to one who should take leave 

Of pale immortal death, and with a pang 

As hot as death's is chill, with fierce convulse 

Die into life : so young Apollo anguish'd ; 

His very hair, his golden tresses famed 

Kept undulation round his eager neck. 

During the pain, Mnemosyne upheld 

Her arms as one who prophesied. — At length 

Apollo shriek'd ; — and lo ! from all his limbs 

Celestial ****«♦ 



JEi!5t:cUaneou!E)i poemis* 



What more felicity can fall to creature 
Than to enjoy delight with liberty? 

Fate of the Butterfly.— Spbj^sek. 



DEDICATION. 



TO LEIGH HUNT, ESQ. 
6!lory and loveliness have pass'd away ; 

For if we wander out in early morn. 

No wreathed incense do we see upborne 
Into the east to meet the smiling day ; 
No crowd of nymphs soft-voiced and young and gay, 

In woven baskets bringing ears of corn, 

Roses, and pinks, and violets, to adorn 
The shrine of Flora in her early May. 
But there are left delights as high as these; 

And I shall ever bless my destiny. 
That in a time when under pleasant trees 

Pan is no longer sought, I feel a free, 
A leafy luxury, seeing I could please, 

With these poor otferings, a man like thee- 



Places of nestling green for poets made. 

Storij of Rimini. 

I STOOD tiptoe upon a little hill. 
The air was cooling, and so very still. 
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside. 
Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems, 
Had not yet lost their starry diadems 
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn. 
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn, 
And Iresh from the clear brook ; sweetly they slept 
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 
43* 



A little noiseless noise among the leaves. 

Born of the very sigh that silence heaves : 

For not the faintest motion could be seen 

Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. 

There was wide wandering for the greediest eye. 

To peer about upon variety ; 

Far round the horizon's ciystal air to skim. 

And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 

To picture out the quaint and curious bending 

Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending: 

Or by the bowery clefts, and leafy shelves. 

Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves 

I gazed awhile, and felt as light, and free 

As though the fanning wings of Mercury 

Had play'd upon my heels : I was light-liearted, 

And many pleasures to my vision started ; 

So I straightway began to pluck a posy 

Of luxuries bright, milky, soft and rosy. 

A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them; 
Ah, sure no tasteful nook could be without them ; 
And lot a lush laburnum ovcrsweep them. 
And let long gra.ss grow roiuid the roots, to keep them 
Moist, cool and green ; and shade the violets, 
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets. 

A filbert-hedge with wild-brier overtwined. 
And clumps of woodl)ine taking the soft wind 
Upon their sumiucr thrones ; there too should be 
The frequent chequer of a youngling tree, 
That with a score of light green brethren shoots 
From the quaint mossiness of aged roots: 
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters 
Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, 
587 



56 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The spreading bluebells ; it may haply mourn 
That such fair clusters should be rudely torn 
From their fresh beds, and scatter'd thoughtlessly 
By infant hands, left on the patli to die. 

Open afresh your round of starry folds, 

Ye ardent marigolds! 

Dry up the moisture from your golden lids. 

For great Apollo bids 

That in these days your praises should be sung 

On many harps which he has lately strung ; 

And when again your dewiness he kisses. 

Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses : 

So haply when I rove in some far vale, * 

His mighty voice may come upon the gale. 

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight : 

With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white, 

And taper fingers catching at all things, 

To bind them all about with tiny rings. 

Linger awhile upon some bending planks 

Tliat lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, 

And watch intently Nature's gentle doings: 

They will be found softer than ring-dove's cooings. 

How silent comes the water round that bend ; 

IVot the minutest whisper does it send 

To the o'erhanging sallows : blades of grass 

Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. 

Why you might read two sonnets, ere they reach 

To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach 

A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds ; 

Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, 

Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, 

To taste the luxury of sunny beams 

Temper'd with coolness. How they ever wrestle 

With their own sweet delight, and ever neslle 

Their silver bellies on the ]wbbly sand ! 

If you but scantily liold out tlie hand. 

That very instant not one will remain ; 

But turn your eye, and tliey are there again. 

The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses. 

And cool themselves among the emerald tresses; 

The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, 

And moi.sture, that the bowery green may live : 

So keeping up an interchange of favors, 

Like good men in the truth of their behaviors. 

Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop 

From low-hung branches : little space they stop ; 

But sip, and twitter, and tlieir feathers sleek ; 

Then off at once, as in a wanton freak : 

Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings. 

Pausing upon their yellow flutlerings. 

Were 1 in such a place, I sure should pray 

Tliat naught less sweet might call my thoughts away, 

Tlian the soft rustle of a maiden's gown 

Fanning away the dandelion's down : 

Tlian the light music of her nimble toes 

Patting against the sorrel as she goes. 

How she would start, and blush, thus to be caught 

Playing in all her innocence of thought I 

O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, 

Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look ; 

O let me for one moment touch her wi-ist ; 

Let me one moment to her breathing list; 

And as she leaves me may she often turn 

Her fair eyes looking tlurough her locks auburn. 



What next ? A tuft of evening primroses, 

O'er which the mind may hover till it dozes'; 

O'er which it well might take a pleasant sleep. 

But that 'tis ever startled by the leap 

Of buds into ripe flowers ; or by the flitting 

Of diverse moths, that aye their rest are quitting ; 

Or by the moon lifting her silver rim 

Above a cloud, and with a gradual swim 

Coming into the blue with ail her light. 

Maker of sweet poets ! dear delight 

Of this fair world and all its gentle livers ; 

Spangler of clouds, lialo of ciystal rivers, 

Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbUng streams' 

Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams. 

Lover of loneliness, and wandering, 

Of upcast eye, and tender pondering! 

Thee must I praise above all other glories 

That smile us on to tell delightful stories. 

For wliat has made the sage or poet write 

But the fair paradise of Nature's light ? 

In the cahn grandeur of a sober line, 

We see the waving of tlie mountain pine ; 

And when a tale is beaulifiilly staid, 

We feel the saibly of a hawthorn glade: 

When it is moving on luxurious wings, 

The soul is lost in pleasant smotherings : 

Fair dewy roses brush against oar faces. 

And flowering laurels spring from diamond vases; 

O'er-hcad we see the jasmine and sweet-brier, 

And bloomy grapes laughing from green attire ; 

Wliile at our feet, the voice of crystal bubbles 

Charms us at once away from all our troubles : 

So that we feel uplifted from the world, 

\Valking upon the while clouds wreathed and curl'd. 

So felt he, wlio iji-st told how Psyche went 

On the smooth wind to realms of wonderment ; 

What Psyciie. felt, and Love, when their full lips 

First toucli'd ; wiiat amorous and fondling nips 

They gave each other's cheelcs; with all their sighs. 

And how they kist eacii other's trenuilous eyes : 

The silver lamp, — the ravishment — the wonder, — 

The darkness — loneliness, — ihe fearful thunder: 

Their woes gone by, and both to heaven up-flown, 

To bow for gratitude before Jove's throne. 

So did he feel, who puU'd the boughs aside. 

That we might look into a forest wide, 

To catch a glimpse of Fauns, and Dryades 

Coming with softest rustle through tlie trees ; 

And garlands woven, of flowers wild and sweet, 

Upheld on ivory wrists, or sporting feet : 

Telling us how fair trembling Syrinx fled 

Arcadian Pan, with such a fearful dread. 

Poor nymph, — poor Pan, — how he did weep, to find 

Naught but a lovely sigliing of the wind 

Along the reedy stream; a hulf-iieard strain, 

Full of sweet desolation — balmy pain. 



What first inspired a bard of old to sing 
Narcissus pining o'er the untainted spring ? 
In some delicious ramble, he had found 
A little space, with boughs all woven round : 
And in the midst of all, a clearer pool 
Than e'er reflected in its pleasant cool 
The blue sky, here and there serenely peeping 
Through tendril wreaths fantastically creeping. 
588 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



57 



And on tlie bank a lonely flower he spied, 
A meek and forlorn flower, with naught of pride, 
Drooping its beauty o'er the watery clearness, 
To woo its own sad image into nearness : 
Deaf to light Zephyrus, it would not move ; 
But still would seem to droop, to pine, to love. 
So while the poet stood in this sweet spot. 
Some fainter gloamings o'er his fancy shot ; 
Nor was it long ere he had told the tale 
Of young Narcissus, and sad Echo's bale. 

Wlierc had he been, from whose warm head out-flew 

That sweetest of all songs, that ever new, 

Tliat aye refreshing, pure deliciousness, 

Coming ever to bless 

The Avanderer by moonlight ? to him bringing 

Shapes l>om the invisible world, unearthly singing 

From out the middle air, from flowery nests. 

And from the pillowy silkiness that rests 

Full in tlie speculation of the stars. 

Ah I surely he iiad burst our mortal bars; 

Into some wondrous region he had gone, 

To search for thee, divine Endymion! 

He was a Poet, sure a lover too. 

Who stood on Latmus' top, what time there blew 

Soft breezes from the myrtle vale below ; 

And brought, in faintness solemn, sweet, and slow, 

A liymn Irom Dian's temple ; while upswelling. 

The incense went to her own starry dwelling. 

But though her face was clear as infant's eyes, 

Tliough she stood smiling o'er the sacrifice. 

The poet wept at her so piteous fate. 

Wept that such beauty should be desolate : 

So in fine wrath some golden sounds he won, 

And gave meek Cynthia her Endymion. 

Queen of the wide air ; thou most lovely queen 
Of all the brightness that mine eyes have seen ! 
As tliou exceedest all things in thy shine. 
So every tale, does this sweet tale of thine. 
O for three words of honey, that I might 
Tell but one wonder of thy bridal night! 

Where distant ships do seem to .show their keels, 
Phffibus awhile delay 'd his mighty wheels, 
And turn'd to smile upon thy bashful eyes. 
Ere he his unseen pomp would solemnize. 
The evening weather was so bright, and clear, 
That men of health were of unusual cheer ; 
Stepping like Homer at the tnmipet's call, 
Or young Apollo on the pedestal : 
And lovely women were as fair and warm. 
As Venus looking sideways in alarm. 
The breezes were ethereal, and pure, 
And crept through haU-clo.sed lattices to cure 
The languid sick; it cool'd their lever'd sleep, 

j And soothed them into slumbers full and deep. 

I Soon they awoke clear-eyed : nor burnt with thirst- 

ing. 
; Nor willi hot fingers, nor vith temples bursting: 
And springing up, they met the wond'riug siglit 
Of their dear friends, nigh foolish with delight ; 
Who feel their arms, and breasts, and kiss, and stare, 
And on their placid foreheads part the hair. 
Young men and maidens at each other gazed, 
With hands held back, and motionless, amazed 



To see the brightness in each other's eyes ; 

And so they stood, fill'd with a sweet surprise, 

Until their tongues were loosed in fwesy. 

Therefore no lover did of anguish die : 

But the soft numbers, in that moment spoken. 

Made silken lies, that never may he broken. 

Cynthia ! I cannot tell the greater blisses 

That follow'd thine, and thy dear shepherd's kisses : 

^^'as there a poet born ? — But now no more — 

Wy wandering spirit must no further soar. 



SPECIMEN OF AN INDUCTION TO A POEM. 

Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 
For large white )ilumes are dancing in mine eye. 
Not like the fjrnial crest of latter days. 
But bending in a thousand graceful waj's; 
So graceful, tliat it seems no mortal hand. 
Or e'en the touch of Archimago's wand, 
Could charm them into such an attitude. 
We nuist think rather, that in playful mood. 
Some mountain breeze had turn'd its chief deligtit 
To sliow this wonder of its gentle might. 
Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry ; 
For while I muse, the lance points slantingly 
Athwart the ir.orning air: some lady sweet. 
Who cannot feel for cold her tender feet. 
From the worn top of some old battlement 
Hails it with tears, her stout defender sent; 
And from her own pure self no joy dissembling. 
Wraps round her ample robe with happy trembling. 
Sometimes when the good knight his rest could take. 
It is reflected, clearly, in a lake. 
With the 50ung ashen boughs, 'gainst which it rests, 
And th' half-seen mossiness of linnets' nests. 
Ah ! shall I ever tell its cruelty. 
When the fire flashes from a warrior's eye. 
And his tremendous hand is grasping it. 
And his dark brow for very v. rath is knit? 
Or when his spirit, with more calm intent, 
Leaps to the honors of a tournament. 
And makes the gazers round about the ring 
Stare at the grandeur of the balancing ? 
No, no ! this is far off: — then how shall I 
Revive the dying tones of minstrelsy. 
Which linger yet about long Gothic arches. 
In dark-green ivy, and among wild larches ? 
How sing the splendor of the revelries, 
When butts of wine are drank off to the lees? 
And that bright lance, against the fretted wall. 
Beneath the shade of stately banneral. 
Is slung with shining cuirass, sword, and shield ? 
Where ye m.ay see a spur in bloody field. 
Light-footed damsels move with genrie paces 
Round the wide hall, and show their happy faces ; 
Or stand in courtly talk by fives and sevens. 
Like those fair stars that twinkle in the heavens. 
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry : 
Or wherefore comes tliat knight so proudly by? 
WlicrpJiire more iiroudly does the gentle knight 
Rein in the swelling of his ample might ? 
Spenser! thy brows arc arched, open, kind. 
And come like a clear sunrise to my mind ; 
And always does my heart with pleasure dance 
When I think on thy noble countenance : 
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Where never yet was aught more earthly seen 

Than the pure freshness of thy laurels green. 

Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully 

Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigli 

My daring steps : or if thy tender care, 

Thus startled unaware. 

Be jealous that the foot of other wight 

Should madly follow that bright path of light 

Traced by thy loved Libertas ; he will speak, 

And tell thee that my prayer is very meek ; 

That I will follow with due reverence, 

And start with awe at mine own strange pretence. 

Him thou wilt hear ; so 1 will rest in hope 

To see wide plains, fair trees, and lawny slope : 

The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers ; 

Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers. 



CALIDORE. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake ; 

His healthful spirit eager and awake 

To feel the beauty of a silent eve. 

Which seem'd full loth this happy world to leave, 

The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly. 

He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, 

And smiles at the far clearness all around, 

Until his heart is well-nigh over-wound. 

And turns for calmness to the pleasant green 

Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean 

So elegantly o'er the waters' brim 

And show their blossoms trim. 

Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow 

The freaks, and darlings of the black-wing'd swallow 

Delighting much, to see it half at rest. 

Dip so refreshingly its wings and breast 

'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon. 

The widening circles into nothing gone. 

And now the sharp keel of his little boat 
Comes up with ripple and with easy float. 
And glides into a bed of water-lilies : 
Broad-leaved are they, and their white canopies 
Are upward turn'd to catch the heaven's dew. 
Near to a little island's point they grew ; 
Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view 
Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore 
Went oflT in gentle windings to the hoar 
And light-blue mountains : but no breathing man 
With a warm heart, and eye prepared lo scan 
Nature's clear beauty, could pass lightly by 
Objects that look'd out so invitingly 
On either side. These, gentle Calidore 
Greeted, as he had known them long before. 

The sidelong view of swelling leafiness, 
Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress, 
Whence, ever and anon, the joy outsprings. 
And scales upon the beauty of its wings. 

The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn. 
Stands venerably proud ; too proud to mourn 
Its long-lost grandeur: fir-trees grow around. 
Aye dropping their hard fruit upon the ground. 



The little chapel, with the cross above 
Upholding wreaths of ivy ; the wliite dove. 
That on the windows spreads his feathers light. 
And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight. 

Green-tufted islands casting their soft shades 

Across the lake ; sequester'd leafy glades. 

That through the dimness of their twilight show 

Large dock-leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow 

Of the wild cat's-eyes, or the silvery stems 

Of delicate birch-trees, or long grass which hems 

A litlle brook. The youth had long been viewing 

These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing 

The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught 

A trumpet's silver voice. Ah ! it was fraught 

With many joys for him : the warder's ken 

Had found white coursers prancing in the glen: 

Friends very dear to him he soon will see ; 

So pushes off his boat most eagerly. 

And soon upon the lake he skims along. 

Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song ; . 

Nor minds he the while swans that dream so sweetly^ 

His spirit flies before him so completely. 

And now he turns a jutting jx)int of land, 

Whence may be seen the castle gloomy and grand • 

Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, 

Before the point of Jiis light shallop reaches 

Those marble steps that through the water dip: 

Now over them he goes with hasty trip, 

.'^nd scarcely stays to ope the folding-doors : 

Anon he leaps along the oaken floors 

Of halls and corridors. 



Delicious sounds ! those little bright-eyed things 
That float about the air on azure wings, 
Had been less heartfelt by him than the clang 
Of clattering hoofs ; into the court he sprang, 
Just as two noble steeds, and palfreys twain. 
Were slanting out their necks with loosen'd rein; 
Wliile from beneath the threatening portcullis 
They brought tiieir happy burthens. What a kiss, 
What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand ! 
How tremblingly their delicate ankles spann'd ! 
Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, 
While whisperings of afl"ection 
Made him delay to let their tender feet 
Come to the earth ; with an incline so sweet 
From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent: 
And whether there were tears of languishment, 
Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses, 
He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses 
With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye, 
All the soft luxury 

That nestled in his arms. A dimpled hand, 
Fair as some wonder out of fairy land. 
Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers 
Of whitest Cassia, fresh from summer showers : 
And this he fondled with his happy cheek. 
As if for joy he would no further seek : 
When the kind voice of good Sir Cierimond 
Came to his ear, like something from beyond 
His present being : so he gently drew 
His warm arms, thrilling now with pulses new. 
From their sweet thrall, and forward gently bending, 
Thank'd heaven that his joy was never-ending : 
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.59 



While 'gainst his forehead he devoutly press'd 
A hand Heaven made to succor the distress'd ; 
A hand that from the world's bleak promontory 
Had lifted Calidore for deeds of Glory. 

Amid the pages, and the torches' glare, 

There stood a knight, patting the llowing hair 

Of his proud horse's mane : he was withal 

A man of elegance, and stature tall : 

So that the waving of his plumes would be 

High as the berries of a wild-ash tree, 

Or as the winged cap of Mercury. 

His armor was so dexterously wrought 

In shape, that sure no living man had thought 

It hard, and heavy steel : but that indeed 

It was some glorious form, some splendid weed, 

In which a spirit new come from the skies 

Might live, and show itself to human eyes. 

'Tis the flxr-famed, the brave Sir Goadibert, 

Said the good man to Calidore alert ; 

While the young warrior with a step of grace 

Came up, — a courtly smile upon his face. 

And mailed hand held out, ready to greet 

The large-eyed wonder, and ambitious heat 

Of the aspiring boy ; who, as he led 

Those smiling ladies, often turn'd his head 

To admire the visor arch'd so gracefully 

Over a knightly brow ; while ihey went by 

The lamps that from the high-roofd walls were 

pendent. 
And gave the steel a shining quite transcendent. 

Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated. 

The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted 

All the green leaves that round the window clamber, 

To show their purple stars, and bells of amber. 

Sir Gondibert has dofTd his shining steel. 

Gladdening in the free and airy feel 

Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond 

Is looking round about him with a fond 

And placid eye, young Calidore is burning 

To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning 

Of all unworthiness ; and how the strong of arm 

Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm 

From lovely woman : while brimful of this. 

He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss, 

And had such manly ardor in his eye, 

That each at other look'd half-staringly : 

And then their features started into smiles. 

Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles. 

Softly the breezes from the forest came, 
I Softly they blew aside the taper's flame ; 
Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower ; 
Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower; 
Mysterious, wild, the far-heard trumpet's tone ; 
Lovely the moon in ether, all alone : 
Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, 
As that of busy spirits when the portals 
Are closing in the West ; or that soft humming 
We hear around when Hesperus is coming. 
Sweet be their sleep. ****** 



TO SOiME LADIES 

ON RECEIVING A CURIOUS SHELL. 

What though, while the wonders of nature exploring, 
, I carmot your light mazy footsteps attend ; 
' 3P 



Nor listen to accents, that almost adoring. 
Bless Cynthia's face, the enthusiast's iHend : 

Yet over the steep, whence the mountain-stream rushes. 
With you, kindest friends, in idea I rove ; 

Mark the clear tumbling crystal, its passionate gushes, 
Its spray that the wild-flower kindly bedews. 

Why linger ye so, the wild labyrinth strolling ? 

Why breathless, unable your bliss to declare ? 
Ah ! you list to the nightingale's tender condoling, 

Responsive to sylp?is, in the raoonbearay air. 

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping, 
I see you are treading the verge of the sea : 

And now! ah, I see it — you just now are stooping 
To pick up the keepsake intended for me. 

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending, 

Had brought me a gem from the fretwork of Heaven ; 

And smiles with his star-cheering voice sweetly blend- 
ing. 
The blessings of Tiglie had melodiously given ; 

It had not created a warmer emotion 

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with 
from you ; 
Than the shell, from the briglit golden sands of the 
ocean. 
Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw. 

For, indeed, 'tis a sweet and peculiar pleasure 
(And blissful is he who such happiness finds), 

To possess but a span of the hour of leisure 
In elegant, pure, and aerial minds. 



ON RECEIVING A COPY OF VERSES FROM THE 
SAME LADIES. 

Hast thou from the caves of Golconda, a gem 
Pure as the ice-drop that froze on the mountains? 

Bright as the humming-bird's green diadem. 

When it flutters in sunbeams that shine through a 
fountain ? 

Ilast thou a goblet for dark sparkling wine ? 

That goijlet riglit heavy, and ma.'^sy, and gold? 
And splendidly mark"d with the story divine 

Of Arniida the fair, and Uinaldo tlio bold ? 

Hast thou a steed with a mane richly flowing ? 

Mast thou a sword that thine enemy's smart is? 
Hast thou a trumpet rich melodies blowing? 

And wear'st thou the shield of tiie famed Brito- 
martis? 

What is it that hangs from thy shoulder so brave, 
Eml>roider"d with many a spring-peering flower? 

Is it a scarf that thy fair lady gave ? 

And hastest thou now to that fair lady's bower ? 

Ah ! courteous Sir Knight, with large joy thou art 
crown'd ; 
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth! 
I will tell thee my blisses, which richly abound 
In magical powers to bless and to soothe. 
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On this scroll thou seest written in characters fair 
A sunbeaming tale of a wreath, and a chain : 

And, warrior, it nurtures the property rare 

Of charming my mind from the Irannnels of pain. 

This canopy mark : 't is the work of a fay ; 

Beneath its rich shade did King Oberon languish, 
When lovely Titania was far, far away. 

And cruelty left him to sorrow and anguish. 

There, oft would he bring from his soft-sighing lute 
Wild strains, to which, spell-bound, the nightin- 
gales listen'd I 
The wondering spirits of Heaven were mute, 

And tears 'mong the dew-drops of morning oft 
glisten'd. 

In this little dome, all those melodies strange, 
Soft, plaintive, and melting, for ever will sigh ; 

Kor e'er will the notes from their tenderness change, 
Nor e'er will the music of Oberon die. 

So when I am in a voluptuous vein, 

I pillow my head on the sweets of the rose. 

And list to the tale of the wreath, and the chain, 
Till its echoes depart ; then I sink to repose. 

Adieu ! valiant Eric ! with joy thou art crown'd, 
Full many the glories that brighten thy youth, 

I too have ray blisses, which richly abound 
In magical powers to bless and to soothe. 



TO 



Hadst thou lived in days of old, 

O what wonders had been told 

Of thy lively countenance, 

And thy humid eyes that dance, 

In the midst of their own brightness. 

In the very fane of lightness; 

Over which thine eyebrows, leaning. 

Picture out each lovely meaning ! 

In a dainty bend they lie. 

Like to streaks across the sky, 

Or the feathers from a crow, 

Fallen on a bed of snow. 

Of thy dark hair, that extends 

Into many graceful bends: 

As the leaves of hellebore 

Turn to whence they sprung before. 

And behind each ample curl 

Peeps the richuess of a pearl. 

Downward too flows many a tress 

With a glossy waviness. 

Full, and round like globes that rise 

From the censer to the skies 

Through sunny air. Add too, the sweetness 

Of thy honey'd voice ; the neatness 

Of thine ankle lightly tarn'd : 

With those beauties scarce discern'd, 

Kept with such sweet privacy. 

That they seldom meet the eye 

Of the little Loves that fly 

Round about with eager pry. 

Saving when with freshening lave. 

Thou dipp'st them in the taintless wave ; 



Like twin water-lilies, born 

In the coolness of the morn. 

O, if thou hadst breathed then. 

Now the Muses had been ten. 

Couldst thou wish for lineage higher 

Tlian twin-sister of Thalia I 

At least for ever, evermore 

Will I call the Graces four, 

Hadst thou lived when chivalry 

Lifted up her lance on high, 

Tell me what thou wouldst have been? 

Ah! I see the silver sheen 

Of thy broider'd floating vest 

Cov'ring half thine ivory breast: 

Which, O Heavens ! I should see. 

But that cruel Destiny 

Has placed a golden cuirass there, 

Keeping secret what is fair. 

Like sunbeams in a cloudlet nested, 

Thy locks in knightly casque are rested : 

O'er which bend four milky plumes. 

Like the gentle lily's blooms 

Springing from a costly vase. 

See with what a stately pace 

Comes thine alabaster steed ; 

Servant of heroic deed I 

O'er his loins, his trappings glow 

Like the norlhern lights on snow. 

Mount his back ! thy sword unsheath ! 

Sign of the enchanter's death ; 

Bane of every wicked spell ; 

Silencer of dragon's yell. 

Alas ! thou this wilt never do : 

Thou art an enchantress too. 

And wilt surely never spill 

Blood of those whose eyes can kill. 



TO HOPE. 

Whem by my solitary hearth I sit. 

And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom 
When no fair dreams before my " mind's eye" flit, 

And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; 
Sweet Hope ! eihereal balm upon me shed, 
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night. 

Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright 
ray. 

Should sad IDespondency my musings fright, 
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away, 

Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof, 

And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof. 

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair, 
Strive for her son lo seize my careless heart 

When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air. 
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart : 

Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright, 

And fright him, as the morning frightens night ! 

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear 
Tells to my painful breast a tale of sorrow, 

O bright-eyed Hope, my morbid fancy cheer ; 
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow : 

Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed. 

And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head ! 
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61 



Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain, 
From cruel parents, or relentless fair, 

O let me think it is not quite in vain 
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air ! 

Sweet Hope ! ethereal balm upon me shed. 

And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

[n tlie long vista of the years to roll, 

Let me not see our country's honor fade ! 

O let me see our land retain her soul ! 

Her pride, her freedom ; and not freedom's shade. 

From thy bright eyes unusual brightn(»;s shed — 

Beneath thy pinions canopy ray head ! 

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest. 
Great Liberty! how great in plain attire! 

With the base purple of a court oppress'd, 
Bowing her head, and ready to expire : 

But let me see thee sloop from Heaven on wings 

That fill the skies with silver glitterings ! 

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star 

Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud ; 
Brightening the half-veil'd face of heaven afar: 

So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud, 
Sweet Hope ! celestial influence round me shed, 
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head. 

February, 1815. 



IMITATION OF SPENSER. 

******** 
Now Morning from her orient chamber came, 
And her first footstep touch'd a verdant hill : 
Crowning its lawny crest with amber ilame, 
Silvering the untainted gushes of its rill ; 
Which, pure from mo.ssy beds, did down distil, 
And, after parting beds of simple flov\ers, 
By many streams a little lake did fill, 
Which round its marge reflected woven bowers. 
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. 

There the kingfisher saw his plumage bright. 
Vying with fish of brilliant dye below ; 
Whose silken fins' and golden scales' light 
Cast upward, through the waves, a ruby glow: 
There saw the swan his neck of arched snow, 
And oar'd himself along with majesty ; 
Sparkled his jctly eyes ; his feet did show 
Beneath the waves like Afric's ebony. 
And on his back a fay reclined voluptuously. 

Ah ! could I tell the wonders of an isle 
That in that fairest lake had placed been, 
I could e'en Dido of her grief beguile ; 
Or rob from aged Lear his bitter teen : 
For sure so fair a place was never seen 
Of all that ever charin'd romantic eye: 
It seem'd an emerald in the silver sheen 
Of the bright waters; or as when on high. 
Through clouds of fleecy white, laughs the cerulean 
sky. 

And all around it dipp'd luxuriously 
Slopings of verdure through the glossy tide, 
I Which, as it were in gentle amity. 
Rippled delighted up the flowery side ; 



As if to glean the ruddy tears it tried. 
Which fell profusely from the rose-tree stem ! 
Haply it was the workings of its pride, 
In strife to throw upon the shore a gem 
Outvying all the buds in Flora's diadem. 



Woman ! when I behold thee flippant, vain. 

Inconstant, childish, proud, and full of fancies ; 

Without that modest softening that enhances 
The downcast eye, repentant of the pain 
That its mild light creates to heal again ; 

E'en then, elate, my spirit leaps and prances. 

E'en then my soul with exultation dances 
For that to love, so long, I 've dormant lain : 
But when I see thee meek, and kind, and tender 

Heavens! how desperately do I adore 
Thy winning graces ; — to be thy defender 

I hotly burn — to be a Calidore — 
A very Red-Cross Knight — a stout Leander — 

Might I be loved by thee like these of yore. 

Light feet, dark violet eyes, and parted hair ; 

Soft dimpled hands, while neck, and creamy breast ; 

Are things on which the dazzled senses rest 
Till the fond, fixed eyes, fi)rget they stare. 
From such fine pictures. Heavens! I cannot dare 

To turn my admiration, though unpossess'd 

They be of what is worthy, — though not drest 
In lovely modesty, and \irtues rare. 
Yet these I leave as thoughtless as a lark ; 

These lures I straight ibrget,- e'en ere I dine, 
Or thrice my palate moisten •■ bm when I mark 

Such charms with mild intelligences shine. 
My ear is open like a greedy shark. 

To catch the tunings of a voice divine. 

Ah ! who can e'er forget so fair a being ? 

Who can forget her half-retiring sweets ? 

God ! she is like a milk-white lamb that bleats 
For man's protection. Surely the All-seeing, 
Who joys to see us with his gifts agreeing. 

Will never give him pinions, who entreats 

Such innocence to ruin, — who vilely cheats 
A dove-like bosom. In truth, there is no freeing 
One's thoughts from such a beauty ; when I hear 

A lay that once I saw her hand awake. 
Her form seems floating palpable, and near : 

Had I e'er seen her from an arbor take 
A dewy flower, oft would that liand appear. 

And o'er my eyes the trembling moisture shako 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. 

1. 

Mv heart ache.'!, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk. 
Or empiicd some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Leiho-wards had sunk 
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. 
But being too happy in thy happiness, — 

That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberles5. 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 
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62 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



O for a draught of vintage, that hath been 

Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 
Tasting of Flora and the country-green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth ! 
for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 
With bended bubbles winking at the brim. 
And purple-stained month ; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 
And with thee fade away into the forest dim : 



Fade far away, dissolve, and quite fiirget 

What thou among the leaves hnst never known. 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs. 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrovi'. 

4. 
Away ! away ! for I will lly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards : 
Already with thee ! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays ; 
But here there is no light. 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy 
ways. 

5. 

I caimot see what flowers are at my feet, 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. 
But, in embalmed darlvness, guess each sweet 

Wherewith the seasonable month endows 
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild ; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine ; 
Fast-fading violets cover'd up in leaves ; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 



Darkling I listen ; and, for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath ; 

Now more than ever seems it rich to die. 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain. 

While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- 

To thy high requiem become a sod. 



Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down ; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown : 



Perhaps the self-same song that foimd a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for 
home. 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn ; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 
Of perilous seas, in fairy-lands forlorn. 



Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 
Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so vscU 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf 
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Pa^t the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music : — Do I wake or sleep ? 



ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. 

1. 

Tiiou still unravish'd bride of quietness I 

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A fiov»ery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, , 

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady ? 

What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth ? 
What mad pursuit ? What struggle to escape ? 

What pipes and timbrels ? What wild ecstasy! 



Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd. 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone : 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare ; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss. 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve ; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! 

3. 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu ; 
And, happy melodist, unwearied. 

For ever piping songs for ever new ; 
More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 

For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd. 
For ever panting and for ever young ; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

4. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice ? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies. 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
What little town by river or sea-shore. 
Or moimtain-built with peaceful citadel, 
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63 



Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn ? 
And, little town, thy streets for evermore 
Will silent be ; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 



O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form ! dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity : Cold Pastoral ! 

When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shall remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 

"Beauty is truth, truth beautj'," — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ve need to know. 



ODE TO PSYCHE. 

Goddess ! hear these tuneless numbers, wrung 
By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear. 

And pardon that thy secrets should be sung, 
Even into tliine own soft-couched ear : 

Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 

The winged Psyche with avvaken'd eyes! 

1 wander'd in a forest thoughtlessly, 

And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, 
Saw two fair creatures, couched side by side 
In deepest grass, beneath the whisp'ring roof 
• Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran 
A brooklet, scarce espied : 
'Mid hush'd, cool-rooted llowers, fragrant-eyed, 

Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, 
They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass ; 
Their arms embraced, and their pinions too; 
Their lips touch'd not, but had not bade adieu, 
I As if disjoined by soft-handed slumber, 
i And ready still past kisses to outnumber 
At tender eye-dawn of Aurorean love : 

The winged hoy I knew ; 
But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove ? 
His Psyche true ! 

O latest-bom and loveliest vision far 

Of all Olympus' faded hierarchy I 
Fairer than Phccbe's sapphire-region'd star, 

Or Vesper, amorous glow-worm of tlie sky ; 
Fairer than these, though temple thou hast none, 

Nor altar heap'd with flowers; 
Nor ^■irgin-choi^ to make delicious moan 

Upon the midnight hours ; 
No voice, no lute, no pipe, no incense sweet 

From chain-su ung censer teeming ; 
No shrine, no grove, no oracle, no heat 

Of pale-mouthed prophet dreaming. 

O brightest ! though too late for antique vows, 
Too, too late for the fond believing lyre, 

When holy were the haunted forest boughs, 
Holy the air, the water, and the fire ; 

Yet even in these days so fiir retired 
From happy pieties, thy lucent fans. 
Fluttering among the faint Olympians, 

!I see, and sing, by my own eyes inspired. 
So let nie be thy choir, and make a moan 
Upon the midnight hours ; 
I 44 



Thy voice, thy lute, thy pipe, thy incense sweet 

From swinged censer teetning ; 
Thy shrine, thy grove, thy oracle, thy heat 

Of pale-mouth'd prophet dreaming. 

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane 

In some untrodden region of my mind, 
Where branched thoughts, new-growTi with pleasant 
pain. 

Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind : 
Far, far arotmd shall those dark-cluster'd trees 

Fledge the wild-ridged mountains steep by steep ; 
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees, 

The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep; 
And in the midst of this wide quietness 
A rosy sanctuary will I dress 
With the wreathed trellis of a worldng brain, 

With buds, and bells, and stars without a name. 
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign, 

Who breeding fiowers, will never breed the same 
And there shall be lor thee all soft delight 

That shadowy thought can win, 
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night. 

To let the warm Love in ! 



FA^■CY. 

Ever let the Fancy roam, 

Pleasure never is at home : 

At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 

Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 

Then let winged Fancy wander 

Through the thoughts still spread beyond her 

Open wide the mind's cage-door. 

She'll dart forth, and cloudvvard soar. 

O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 

Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 

And the enjoying of the Spring 

Fades as dol>s its blossoming ; 

AiUumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too. 

Blushing througii the mist and dew. 

Cloys w iih tasting : What do then ? 

Sit thee by the ingle, when 

The sear fagot blazes bright, 

Spirit of a winter's night; 

When the soundless earth is muffled. 

And the caked snow is shuffled 

From the plow boy's heavy shoon ; 

AVhen the IVight iloth meet the Noon 

In a dark conspiracy 

To banish Even from her sky. 

Sit thee there, and send abroad. 

With a mind sclf-overaw'd. 

Fancy, high cominission'd : send her! 

She has vassals to attend her : 

She will bring, in spite of frost. 

Beauties that the earth hath lost ; 

She will bring thee, all together, 

All delights of summer weather; 

All the buds and bells of JSIay, 

From dewy sward or thorny spray ; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth. 

With a still, mysterious stealth: 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

595 



04 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And thou shall quaff it : — thou shall hear 
Distant harvest-carols clear ; 
Rustle of the reaped corn ; 
Sweet birds antheming the morn : 
And, in the same moment — hark ! 
'Tis the early April lark, 
Or the rooks, with busy caw, 
, Foraging for sticks and straw. 
Thou shall, at one glance, behold 
The daisy and tlie marigold ; 
White-plumed lilies, and the first 
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst ; 
Shaded hyacinth, alway 
Sapphire queen of the mid-May ; 
And every leaf, and every fiuwer 
Pearled with tlie self-same shower. 
Thou shall see the field-mouse peep 
Meager from its celled sleep ; 
And the snake all winler-tliin 
Cast on sunny bank its skin ; 
Freckled nest-eggs thou shall see 
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree. 
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 
Quiet on her mossy nest ; 
Then the hurry and alarm 
When tlie bee-hive easts its swarm ; 
Acorns ripe down-pattering. 
While the autumn breezes sing. 

O, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Every thing is spoilt by use : 
Where 's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gazed at ? Where 's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new ? 
Where's the eye, however blue. 
Doth not weary? Where's the face 
One would meet in eveiy place ? 
Where 's the voice, however soft, 
One would hear so very oft ? 
At a louch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelleth. 
Let, then, winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind : 
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 
Ere the God of Torment taught her 
How to frown and how to chide ; 
With a waist and with a side 
White as Hebe's when her zone 
Slipl its golden clasp, and down 
Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
While she held the goblet sweet, 
And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
Of the Fancy's silken leash ; 
Quickly break her prison-string, 
And such joys as these she'll bring. — 
Let the winged Fancy roam. 
Pleasure never is at home. 



ODE. 

IJards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
Have ye souls in heaven loo. 
Double-lived in regions new ? 
Yes, and those of heaven commune 
With the spheres of sun and moon ; 



With the noise of fountains wondrous, 
And the parle of voices Ihund'rous ; 
With the whisper of heaven's trees 
And one another, in soft ease 
Seated on Elysian lawns 
Browsed by none but Dian's fawns ; 
Underneath large blue-bells tented. 
Where the daisies are rose-scented, 
And the rose herself has got 
Perfume which on earth is not ; 
Where the nightingale doth sing 
Not a senseless, tranced thing. 
But divine melodious truth ; 
Philosophic numbers smooth ; 
Tales and golden histories 
Of heaven and ita mysteries. 

Thus ye live on high, and then 
On the earth ye live again ; 
And the souls ye left behind you 
Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
Where your other souls are joying. 
Never slumber'd, never cloying. 
Here, your earth-born souls still speak 
To mortals, of their little week ; 
Of tlieir sorrows and delights ; 
Of their passions and their spites ; 
Of their glory and their shame ; 
What doth strengthen and what maim. 
Thus ye teach us, every day, 
Wisdom, though fled far away. 

Bards of Passion and of Mirth, 
Ye have left j'our souls on earth! 
Ye have souls in heaven too. 
Double-lived in regions new I 



LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN 

Souls of poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine ? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison ? O generous food ! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away, 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin, gave the story, — 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new-old sign 
Sipping beverage divine. 
And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern. 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ? 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



65 



ROBIN HOOD 



TO A FRIEND. 



No ! those days are gone away, 
And Iheir hours are old and gray, 
And their minutes buried all 
Under the down-trodden pall 
Of the leaves of many years : 
Many times have Winter's shears, 
Frozen North, and chilling East, 
Sounded tempests to the feast 
Of the forest's whispering fleeces, 
Since men knew nor rent nor leases. 



No, the bugle sounds no more. 
And the twanging bow no more ; 
Silent is the ivory shrill 
Past the heath and up the hill ; 
There is no mid-forest laugh, 
Where lone Echo gives the half 
To some wight, amazed to hear 
Jesting, deep in forest drear 

On the fairest time of June 
You may go, with sun or moon. 
Or the seven stars to light you. 
Or the polar ray to right you ; 
But you never may behold 
Little John, or Robin bold ; 
Never one, of all the clan. 
Thrumming on an empty can 
Some old hunting ditty, while 
He doth his green way beguil 
To fair hostess Merriment, 
Down beside the pasture Trent ; 
For he left the merry tale 
Messenger for spicy ale. 

Gone, the merry morris din ; 
Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; 
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw 
Idling in the " grene shawe ; " 
All are gone away and past ! 
And if Robin should be cast 
Sudden from his tufted grave. 
And if Marian should have 
Once again her forest days. 
She would weep, and he would craze : 
He would swear, for all his oaks, 
Fall'n beneath the dock-yard strokes, 
Have rotted on the briny seas; 
She would weep that her wild bees 
Sang not to her — strange! that honey 
Can't be got without hard money ! 

So It is ; yet let us smg 
Honor to the old bow-string ! 
Honor to the bugle-horn ! 
Honor to the woods unshorn I 
Honor to the Lincoln green ! 
Honor to the archer keen I 
Honor to tight little John, 
And the horse he rode upon! 
Honor to bold Robin Hood, 
Sleeping in the underwood ! 



Honor to maid Marian, 
And to all the Sherwood clan ! 
Tliough their days have hurried by, 
Let us two a burden try. 



TO AUTUMN. 

Season of misls and mellow fruitfulness ! 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 
Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run, 
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees. 

And fdl all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel-shells 
With a sweet kernel ; to set budding more. 

And still more, later flowers for the bees, 
Until they think warm days will never cease, 

For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy celb. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ? 

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor. 

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep. 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 

Steady thy laden head across a brook ; 

Or by a cider-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they ? 

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day. 

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 

Hedge-criokets sing ; and now with treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft ; 
And gathering swallows twitter in the slues 



ODE ON MELANCHOLY. 

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist 

Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; 
Nor sufler thy pale forehead to be kiss'd 

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ; 
Make not your rosary of yew-berries. 

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be 
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl 
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ; 

For shade to shade will come too drowsily. 
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 

But when the melancholy fit shall fall 

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, 
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all. 

And hides the green hill in an April shroud ; 
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose. 
Or on the raiidww of the salt sand-wave. 
Or on the wealth of globed peonies; 
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows. 
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave. 
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 
597 



66 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



She dwells with Beauty — Beauty that must die ; 

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips 
Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh, 

Turning to jx)isoa while the bee-mouth sips : 
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 

Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine, 

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous 
tongue 
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine ; 
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, 
And be among her cloudy trophies hung. 



SLEEP AND POETRY. 



As I lay in my bed slope full unraete i 

Was unto me, but why that I ne might 
Rest I ne wist, for there ii' as erthly wight 
(As I suppose) had more of hertis ese 
Than I, lor I n' ad sicknesse nordisese. 
Chaccer. 



What is more gentle than a wind in summer ? 
What is more soothing than the pretty hummer 
That stays one moment in an open flower. 
And buzzes cheerily from bovver to bower ? 
What is more tranquil than a musk-rose blowing 
In a green island, far from all men's knowing ? 
More healthful than the leafiness of dales? 
More secret than a nest of nightingales ? 
More serene than Cordelia's countenance ? 
More full of visions than a high romance ? 
What, but thee. Sleep ? Soft closer of our eyes! 
Low murmurer of tender lullabies! 
Light hoverer around our happy pillows ! 
Wreather of poppy buds, and weeping willows ! 
Silent entangler of a beauty's tresses ! 
Most happy listener! when the morning blesses 
Thee for enlivening all the cheerful eyes 
That glance so brightly at the new sunrise. 

But what is higher beyond thought than thee ? 

Fresher than berries of a mountain-tree ? 

More strange, more beautiful, more smooth, more regal. 

Than wings of swans, than doves, than dim-seen eagle ? 

What is it ? And to what shall I compare it ? 

It has a glory, and naught else can share it: 

The thought thereof is awful, sweet, and holy, 

Chasing away all worldliness and folly : 

Commg sometimes like fearful claps of thunder ; 

Or the low rumblings earth's regions under ; 

And somelimes like a gentle whispering 

Of all the secrets of some wondrous thing 

That breathes about us in the vacant air ; 

So that we look around with prying stare, 

Perhaps to see shapes of light, aerial lymning. 

And catch soft lloatings from a faint-heard hymning ; 

To see the laurel-wreath, on high suspended, 

That is to crown our name when life is ended. 

Sometimes it gives a glory to the voice, 

And from the heart up-springs. Rejoice ! rejoice ! 

Sounds which will reach the Framer of all things, 

And die away in ardent mutterings. 

^'o one who once the glorious sun has seen, 
And all the clouds, and felt his bosom clean 



For his great Maker's presence, but must know 
What 't is I mean, and feel his being glow : 
Therefore no insult will I give his spirit, 
By telling what he sees from native merit. 



O Poesy ! for thee I hold my pen, 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 

Of thy wide heaven — should I rather kneel 

Upon some mountain-top until I feel 

A glowing splendor round about me hung, 

And echo back the voice of thine own tongue ? 

O Poesy ! for thee I grasp my pen 

That am not yet a glorious denizen 

Of thy wide heaven ; yet, to my ardent prayer, 

Yield from thy sanctuary some clear air, 

Smoothed for intoxication by the breath 

Of flowering bays, that ] may die a death 

Of luxury, and my young spirit follow 

The morning sunbeams to the great Apollo, 

Like a fresh sacrifice ; or, if I can bear 

The o'erwhelming sweets, 'twill bring to me the fail 

Visions of all places : a bowery nook 

Will be elysium — an eternal book 

Whence I may copy many a lovely saying 

Aboirt the leaves, and flowers — about the playing 

Of nymphs in woods, and fountains ; and the shade 

Keeping a silence round a sleeping maid ; 

And many a verse from so strange influence 

That we must ever wonder how, and whence 

It came. Also imaginings will hover 

Round my fire-side, and haply there discover 

Vistas of solemn beauty, where I 'd wander 

In happy silence, like the clear Meander 

Throujrh its lone vales ; and where I found a spot 

Of awfuUer shade, or an enchanted grot. 

Or a green hill o'erspread with chequer'd dress 

Of flowers, and fearful from its loveliness, 

Write on my tablets all that was permitted, 

All that was for our human senses fitted. 

Then the events of this wide world I'd seize 

Like a strong giant, and my spirit tease 

Till all its shoulders it should proudly see 

Wings to find out an immortality. 



Stop and consider ! life is but a day ; 
A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way 
From a tree's summit ; a poor Indian's sleep 
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep 
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan ? 
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown ; 
The reading of an ever-changing tale ; 
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil ; 
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air ; 
A laughing school-boy, without grief or care. 
Riding the springy branches of an elm. 



O for ten years, that I may overwhelm 
Myself in poesy ! so I may do the deed 
That my own soul has to itself decreed. 
Then I will pass the countries that I see 
In long perspective, and continually 
Taste their pure fountains. First the realm I 'II pass 
Of Flora, and old Pan : sleep in the grass, 
Feed upon apples red, and strawberries, 
I And choose each pleasure that my fancy sees; 
598 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



07 



Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places, 

To woo sweet kisses from averted faces, — 

Play with their fingers, touch their shoulders white 

Into a pretty shrinlung with a bite 

As hard as lips can make it : till agreed, 

A lovely tale of human life we'll read. 

And one will teach a tame dove how it best 

May fan the cool air gently o'er my rest : 

Another, bending o'er her nimble tread. 

Will set a green robe floating round her head. 

And still will dance with ever-varied ease, 

Smiling upon the flowers and the trees : 

Another will entice me on, and on 

Through almond blossoms and rich cinnamon ; 

Till in the bosom of a leafy world 

We rest in silence, lilie two gems upcurl'd 

In the recesses of a pearly shell. 

And can I ever bid these joys farewell ? 
Yes, I must pass them for a nobler life. 
Where I may find the agonies, the strife 
Of human hearts : for lo ! I see afar, 
O'er-sailing the blue cragginess, a car 
And steeds with streamy manes — the charioteer 
Looks out upon the winds witli glorious fear: 
And now the numerous trampliugs quiver lightly 
Along a huge cloud's ridge; and now with sprightly 
Wheel downward come they into fresher skies, 
Tipt round with silver from the sun's bright eyes. 
Still downward with capacious whirl they glide ; 
And now I see them on a green hill-side 
In breezy rest among the nodding stalks. 
The charioteer with wondrous gesture talks 
To the trees and mountains ; and there soon appear 
Shapes of delight, of mystery, and fear. 
Passing along before a dusky space 
Made by some mighty oaks : as they would chase 
Some ever-fleeting nmsic, on they sweep. 
Lo! how they nuu'mur, laugh, and smile, and weep: 
Some with upholden hand and mouth severe; 
Some with their foces muffled to the ear 
Between their arms ; some clear in youthful bloom. 
Go glad and smilingly athwart the gloom ; 
Some looking back, and some with upward gaze ; 
1 Yes, thousands in a thousand diflibrent ways 
j Flit onward — now a lovely wreath of girls 
i Dancing their sleek hair into tangled curls; 
I And now broad wings. Most awfully intent 
I The driver of those steeds is forward bent, 
I Arid seems to listen : O that I might know 
, All that he writes with such a hurrying glow ! 

The visions all are fled — the car is fled 
Into the light of heaven, and in their stead 
A sense of real things comes doubly strong, 
\ And, like a muddy stream, would bear along 
j My soul to nothingness : but I w ill strive 

Against all doublings, and will keep alive 
I The thought of that same chariot, and the strange 
Journey it went. 

Is there so small a range 
In the present strength of manhood, that the high 
Imagination cannot freely fly 
' As she was wont of old ? prepare her steeds, 
j Paw up against the light, and do strange deeds 
44 * 3 Q 

I 



Upon the clouds ? Has she not show-n us all ? 

P'rom the clear space of ether, to the small 

Breath of new buds unfolding ? Froin the meaning 

Of Jove's large eye-brow, to the tender greening 

Of April meadows ? Here her altar shone, 

E'en in this isle ; and who could paragon 

The fervid choir that Hfled up a noise 

Of harmony, to where it aye will jwise 

Its mighty self of convoluiing sound, 

Huge as a planet, and like that roll round. 

Eternally around a dizzy void ? 

Ay, in those days the Muses were nigh cloy'd 

VVith honors ; nor had any other care 

Than lo sing out and soothe their wavy hair 

Could all this be forgotten ? Yes, a schism 

Nurtured by foppery and barbarism. 

Made great Apollo blush for this his land. 

Men were thouglit wise who coulil not understand 

His glories: with a puling infant's force 

They sway'd about upon a rocking-horse. 

And thought it Pegasus. Ah, dismal-soul'd ! 

The winds of Heaven blew, the ocean roU'd 

Its gathering waves — ye felt it not. The blue 

Bared its eternal bosom, and the dew 

Of summer night collected still to make 

The morning precious : Beauiy was awake ! 

\V^hy were ye not awake ? But ye were dead 

To things ye knew not of, — were closely wed 

To musty laws lined out with wretched rule 

And compass vile : so that ye taught a school 

Of dolts to smooth, inlay, and clip, and fit. 

Till, like the certain wands of Jacob's wit. 

Their verses tallied. Easy was the task : 

A thousand handicraflsmen wore the mask 

Of Poesy. Ill-fated, impious race ! 

That blasphemed the bright Lyiist to his face. 

And did not know it, — no, they went about, 

Holding a poor, decrepit standard out, 

Mark'd with most flimsy mottoes, and in large 

The name of one Boileau ! 



O ye whose charge 
It is to hover round our plea.sant hills I 
Whose congregated majesty so fills 
My boundly reverence, that I cannot trace 
Your hallow'd names, in this unholy place. 
So near those common folk ; did not their shames 
Afl^right you? Did our old lamenting Thames 
Delight you ! did ye never cluster round 
Delicious Avon, vvitli a mournful soimd. 
And weep? Or did ye wholly hid adieu 
To regions where no more the laurel grew ? 
Or did ye stay to give a welcoming 
To some lone .spirits who could proudly sing 
Their youth away, and die ? 'Twas even so : 
But let me tliink away those times of woe: 
Now 'tis a fairer season ; ye have breathed 
Rich benedictions o'er us ; ye have wreathed 
Fresh garlands : for sweet music has boon heani 
In many places; some has l)oen u[)stirr'd 
From out its cryslal dwelling in a lake. 
By a swan's ebon bill ; from a thick brake. 
Nested and quiet in a valley mild. 
Bubbles a pipe ; fine soumis are floating wild 
About the earth : happy are ye and glad. 
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These things are, doubtless: yet in truth we've had 

Strange thunders from the potency of song ; 

Mingled indeed with what is sweet and strong, 

From majesty : but in clear truth the themes 

Are ugly cubs, the Poets' Polyphemes 

Disturbing the grand sea. A drainless shower 

Of light is poesy; 'tis the supreme of power; 

'Tis might half-slumb'ring on its own right arm. 

The very arcliings of her eyelids charm 

A thousand willing agents to obey, 

And still she governs with the mildest sway: 

But strength alone though of the Muses born 

Is like a iallen angel : trees uptorn, 

Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres 

Delight it ; for it feeds upon the burrs 

And thorns of life ; forgetting the great end 

Of poesy, that it should be a friend 

To sootho the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. 



Yet I rejoice : a myrtle fairer than 

E'er grew in Paphos, from the bitter weeds 

Lifts its sweet head into the air, and feeds 

A silent space with ever-sprouting green. 

All tenderesl birds there find a pleasant screen. 

Creep through the shade with jaunty fluttering, 

Ts'ibble tiie little cupped flowers, and sing. 

Then let us clear away the choking thorns 

From round its gentle stem ; let the young fawns, 

Yeaned in after-times, when we are flown, 

Find a fresh sward beneath it, overgrown 

With simple flowers : let there nothing be 

More boisterous than a lover's bended knee ; 

Kaught more ungentle than the placid look 

Of one who leans upon a closed book ; 

Naught more untranquil than the grassy slopes 

Between two hills. All hail, delightful hopes! 

As she was wont, th' im.agination 

Into most lovely labyrinths will be gone, 

And they shall be accounted poet kings 

Who simply tell the most heart-easing things. 

O may these joys be ripe before I die ! 



Will not some say that I presumptuously 

Have sijoken ? that from hastening disgrace 

'T were better far to hide my foolish face ? 

That whining boyhood should with reverence bow 

Ere the dread thunderbolt could reach ? How! 

If I do hide myself, it sure shall be 

In the very fane, the light of Poesy : 

If I do fall, at least I will be laid 

Beneath the silence of a poplar shade ; 

And over me the grass shall be smooth shaven; 

And there shall be a kind memorial graven. 

But ofl^ Despondence ! miserable bane ! 

They should not know thee, w'no athirst to gain 

A noble end, are thirsty every hour. 

What though I am not wealthy in the dower 

Of spanning wisdom ; though I do not know 

The shiflings of the mighty winds that blow 

Hither and thither all the changing thoughts 

Of man ; though no great minisi'ring reason sorts 

Out the dark mysteries of htmian souls 

To clear conceiving : yet there ever rolls 

A vast idea before me, and I glean 

Therefrom my liberty ; thence too I 've seen 



The end and aim of Poesy. 'Tis clear 

As any thing most true ; as that the year 

Is made of the four seasons — manifest 

As a large cross, some old cathedral's crest, 

Lifted to the white clouds. Therefore should I 

Be but the essence of deformity, 

A coward, did my very eyelids wink 

At speaking out what I have dared to think 

Ah! rather let me like a madman run 

Over some precipice; let the hot sun 

Melt mj' Dedalian wings, and drive me down 

Convulsed and headlong! Stay ! an inward frown 

Of conscience bids me be more calm awhile. 

An ocean dim, sprinkled w ilh many an isle. 

Spreads awfully before me. How much toil ! 

How many days ! what desperate turmoil ! 

Ero I can have explored its widenesses. 

Ah, what a task! upon my bended knees, 

I could unsay those — no, impossible 

Impossible ! 



For sweet relief I'll dwell 
On humbler thoughts, and let this strange essay 
Begun in gentleness die so away. 
E'en now all tumult from my bosom fades: 
I turn full-hearted to the friendly aids 
That smooth the path of honor ; brotherhood, 
And friendliness, the nurse of mutual good. 
The hearty grasp that sends a pleasant sonnet 
Into the brain ere one can think upon it ; 
The silence when some rhymes are coming out 
And v^hen they're come, the very pleasant rout' 
Tile message certain to be done to-morrow. 
'Tis perhaps as well that it should be to borrow 
Some precious book from out its snug retreat. 
To cluster round it when we next shall meet. 
Scarce can I scribble on ; for lovely airs 
Are fluttering round the room like doves in pairs 
Many delights of that glad day recalling. 
When first my senses caught their tender falling. 
And with these airs come forms of elegance 
Stooping their shoulders o'er a horse's prance, 
Careless, and grand — fingers soft and round 
Parting luxuriant curls ; — and the swift bound 
Of Bacchus from his chariot, when his eye 
Made Ariadne's cheek look blushingly. 
Thus I remember all the pleasant flow 
Of words at opening a portfolio. 



Things such as these are ever harbingers 
To trains of peaceful images : the stirs 
Of a swan's neck unseen among the rushes . 
A linnet starting all about the bushes : 
A butterfly, with golden wings broad-parted. 
Nestling a rose, convulsed as though it smarted 
With over-pleasure — many, many more, 
Might I indulge at large in all my store 
Of luxuries : yet I must not forget 
Sleep, quiet with his poppy coronet : 
For what tiiere may be worthy in these rhymes 
I partly owe to him : and thus, the chimes 
Of friendly voices had just given place 
To as sweet a silence, when I 'gan retrace 
The pleasant day, upon a couch at ease. 
It was a poet's house who keeps the keys 
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



6\) 



Of pleasure's temple. — Round about were hung 

The glorious features of the bards who sung 

In other ages — cold and sacred busts 

Smiled at each other. Happy he who trusts 

To clear Futurity his darling fame ! 

Tlien there were fauns and satyrs taking aim 

At swelling apples with a frisky leap, 

And reaching lingers 'mid a luscious heap 

Of vine-leaves. Then there rose lo view a fane 

Of liney marble, and thereto a train 

Of nymphs approaching fairly o'er the sward : 

One, loveliest, holding her white hand toward 

The dazzling sunrise : two sisters sweet 

Bending their graceful figures till they meet 

Over the trippings of a little child : 

And some are hearing, eagerly, the wild 

Thrilling liquidity of dewy piping. 

See, in another pic;ure, nymphs are wiping 

C'herishingly Diana's timorous limbs; — 

A fold of lawny mantle dabbling swims 

At the i)alh's edge, and keeps a gentle motion 

With the subsiding crystal : as when ocean 

Heaves calmly its broad swelling smoothness o'er 

Its rocky marge, and balances once more 

The patient weeds ; that now unshent by foam. 

Feel all about their undulating home. 

Sappho's meek head was there half smiling down 

At nothing; just as though the earnest frown 

Of over-thinking had that moment gone 

From off her brow, and left her all alone. 

Great Alfred's too, with anxious, pitying eyes. 
As if he always listeii'd to the sighs 
Of the goaded world; and Kosciusko's, worn 
By horrid sufferance — mightily forlorn. 

Petrarch, out-stepping from the shady green. 
Starts at the sight of Laura; nor can wean 
His eyes from her sweet face. Most happy they ! 
For over them was seen a free display 
Of outspread wings, and from between them shone 
The face of Poesy : from off iier throne 
She overlook'd things that I scarce could tell, 
The very sense of where I was might well 
Keep Sleep aloof: but more than that there came 
Thought after thought to nourish up the flame 
Within my breast ; so that the morning light 
Surprised me even from a sleepless nigiit ; 
I And up I rose refresh'd, and glad, and gay, 
I Resolving to begin tliat very day 
I These lines ; and howsoever they be done, 
J leave them as a father does his son. 



SONNETS. 



E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write 
Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping 

So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, 
And she Iter half-discover'd revels keeping. 

But what, without the social thought of tiiee. 

Would be the wonders of the sky aud sea ? 



TO MY BROTHER GEORGE. 

* Mavy the wonders I this day have seen : 
The sun, when first he kist away the tears 
That (lU'd the eyes of Morn; — tlie laurell'd peers 
Who froin the feathery gold of evening lean ; — 
The Ocean with its vastness, its blue green. 

Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, — 
Its voice mysterious, which who.so hears 
Must think on what will be, and what has been. 

I 



Had I a man's fair form, then might my sighs 
Be echoed swiftly through that ivory shell 
Tliine ear, and find ihy gentle heart; so well 

Would passion arm me for the enterprise : 

But ah I I am no knight whose foeman dies ; 
No cuirass glistens on my bosom's swell; 
I am no happy shepherd of the dell 

Whose lips have trembled with a maiden's eyes. 

Yet must I dole upon thee, — call tliee sweet. 
Sweeter by far than Ilybla's honey'd roses 
When steep'd in dew rich lo intoxication. 

Ah! I will taste that dew, for me 'tis meet, 
And when the moon her pallid face discloses, 
I'll gather some by spells, and incantation. 



WRITTEN ON THE DAY THAT MR. LEIGIt HUNT LEFT 
PRISON. 

What though, for showing truth to flatter'd state, 

Kind Hunt was shut in prison, yet has he 

In his immortal spirit, been as free 
As the sky-searcliing lark, and as elate. 
Minion of grandeur! think you he did wait? 

Think you he naught but prison-walls did see. 

Till, so unwilling, thou uniurn'dst the key? 
Ah, no ! far happier, nobler was his fate ! 
In Spcn.?er's halls he stray'd, and bowers fair, 

Culling enihaiited flowers; and he flew 
With daring IMilton through the fields of air: 

To regions of his own, his genius true 
Took happy flights. Who shall his fame impair 

When ibou art dead, aiul all tliy wretched crew? 



IIow many bards gild the lapses of time ! 

A few of them have ever been the food 

Of my delighted fancy. — I could brood 
Over their beauties, eartidy, or sublime : 
And often, when I sit me down to rhyme. 

These will in throngs belbre my mind intrude : 

But no confusion, no disturi)ance rude 
Do they occasion ; 'lis a pleasing chime. 
So the unnumbcr'd sounds that evening store ; 

The songs of birds — the whisp'ring of the leaves — 
The voice of waters — the great bell that heaves 

With solemn sound, and thousand others more. 
That distance of recognizance bereaves. 

Make pleasing music, and not wild ui)roar. 



to a FRIEND WHO SENT WE SO.ME ROSES. 

As late I rambled in the happy fields, 

What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew 
From his lush clover covert: — ^\llcn anew 

Adventurous luiights take up their dinted shields: 
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70 



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I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, ] 

A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw 
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew 

As is the wand that queen Titania wields. 

And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, 

I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd ; 

But when, O Wells ! thy roses came to me, 

My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd : 

Soft voices had they, that with tender plea 

Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendUness 
unquell'd. 



Keen fitful gusts are whispering here and there 

Among the bushes, half leafless and dry ; 

The stars look very cold about the sky. 
And I have many miles on foot to fare. 
Yet feel 1 little of the cool bleak air, 

Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily. 

Or of those silver lamps that burn on high. 
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair : 
For I am brimful of the friendliness 

That in a little cottage I have found ; 
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress. 

And all his love for gentle Lycid' drown'd ; 
Of lovely Laura in her light-green dress. 

And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd. 



NvMPH of the downward smile, and sidelong glance! 

In what diviner moments of the day 

Art thou most lovely ? when gone far astray 
Into the labyrinths of sweet utterance ? 
Or when serenely wand'ring in a trance 

Of sober thought ? Or when starling away. 

With careless robe to meet the morning ray, 
Thou sparest the flowers in thy mazy dance I 
Haply 'tis when tliy ruby lips part sweetly. 

And so remain, because thou listenest : 
But thou to please wert nurtured so completely 

That I can never tell what mood is best. 
I shall as soon pronounce which Grace more neatly 

Trips it before Apollo than the rest. 



To one who has been long in city pent, 
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 
And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, 
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 

And gentle tale of love and languishraent? 

Returning home at evening, with an ear 
Catching the notes of Philomel,— an eye 

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career. 
He mourns that day so soon has glided by : 

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 



Solitude! if I must with thee dwell. 
Let it not be among the jumbled heap 
Of murky buildings : climb with me the steep,— 

Nature's observatory — whence the dell. 

Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell. 
May seem a span ; let me thy vigils keep 
'Mongst boughs pavilion'd, where the deer's swilt 
leap, 

Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. 

But though 1 '11 gladly trace these scenes with thee. 
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, 

Wliose words are images of thoughts refined. 
Is my soul's pleasure ; and it sure must be 

Almost the highest bliss of human-kind. 

When to thy haunts two lundred spirits flee. 



TO MY BROTHERS. 

Small, busy flames play through the fresh-laid coals, 

And their faint cracklings o'er our silence creep 

Like whispers of the household gods that keep 
A gentle empire o'er fraternal souls. 
And while, for rhymes, 1 search around the poles. 

Your eyes are fix'd, as in poetic sleep, 

Upon the lore so voluble and deep. 
That aye at fall of night our care condoles. 
This is your birlh-day, Tom, and I rejoice 

That thus it passes smootlily, qiiieily. 
Many such eves of gently whisp'ring noise 

May we together pass, and calmly try 
What are this world's true joys,— ere the great Voice 

From its fair face shall bid our spirits fly. 
November 18, 1816. 



ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold. 

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 

Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 

That decp-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne : 

Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

When a new planet swims into his ken ; 
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes 

He stared at the Pacific— and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 



ON LEAVING SOME FRIENDS AT AN EARLY HOUR 

Give me a golden pen, and let me lean 

On heap'd-up flowers, in regions clear, and farj 
Bring me a tablet whiter than a star. 

Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen 

The silver strings of heavenly harp atvveen : 
And let there glide by many a pearly car, 
Pmk robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, 

And half-discover'd wings, and glances keen. 

The while let music wander round my ears, 
And as it reaches each delicious ending. 
Let me write down a line of glorious tone, 

And full of many wonders of the splieres : 
For what a height my spirit is contending ! 
'T is not content so soon to be alone. 
602 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



71 



ADDRKSSED TO HAYDON. 

HiGH-MiNDEDNEss, a jealousy for food, 

A loving-kindness for tlie great man's fame, 
Dwells here and there with people of no name, 

In noisome alley, and in pathless wood : 

And where we think the truth least understood, 
Oft may be found a " singleness of aim," 
That ought to frighten into hooded shame 

A money-mong'ring, pitiable brood. 

How glorious this affection for the cause 
Of stedfast genius, toiling gallantly ! 

Wliat when a stout unbending champion awes 
Envy, and malice to their native sty ? 

Unnurnber'd souls breatiie out a still applause. 
Proud to behold him in his country's eye. 



ADDRESSED TO THE SAME. 

Great spirits now on earth are sojourning : 
He of the cloud, the cataract, the lake, 
Who on Helvellyn's siunmit, wide awake, 

Catches his freshness from Archangel's wing : 

He of the rose, the violet, the spring. 

The social smile, the chain for Freedom's sake : 
And lo ! whose stedfastness would never take 

A meaner sound than Raphael's whispering. 

And other spirits there are standing apart 
Upon the forehead of the age to come ; 

These, these will give the world another heart. 
And other pulses. Hear ye not the hum 

Of mighty workings ? 

Listen awhile, ye nations, and be dumb. 



It tells me too, that on a happy day. 

When some good spirit walks upon the earth. 
Thy name with Alfred's, and the great of yore 
Gently commingling, gives tremendous birth 
To a loud hymn, that sounds far, far away 
To where the great God lives for evermore. 



Happy is England ! I could be content 

To see no other verdure than its own ; 

To feel no other breezes than are blown 
Through its tall woods with high romances blent: 
Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment 

For skies Italian, and an inward groan 

To sit upon an Alp as on a throne. 
And half forget what world or worldling meant 
Happy is England, sweet her arllcss daughters; 

Enough their simple loveliness for me. 

Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging : 

Yet do I often warmly burn to see 

Beauties of deeper glance, and hear their singing, 
And float with them about the summer waters. 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. 

The poetry of earth is never dead : 

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, 
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run 

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead : 

That is the Grasshopper's — he takes the lead 
In summer luxury, — he has never done 
With his delights, for when tired out with fun. 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never : 

On a lone winter evening, when the frost 



Come hither, all sweet maidens soberly, 
Down-looking aye, and with a chastcn'd light 
Hid in the fringes of your eyelids wliite, 
And meekly let your fair hands joined be, 
As if so gentle that ye could not see. 
Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills Untouch'd, a victim of your beauty bright. 
The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever i -. . ■ ■ ■ 



THE HUMAN SEASONS. 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year ; 

There are four seasons in the mind of man : 

He has his lusty Spring, vviien fancy clear 

Takes in all beauty with an easy span : 

He has his Summer, when luxuriously 

Spring's honey "d cud of youthful thought he loves 

To ruminate, and by such dreaming nigh 

Is nearest unto heaven : quiet coves 

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 

He furleth close ; contented so to look 

On mists in idleness — to let fair things 

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 

He has his winter too of pale misfeature, 

Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 



ON A PICTURE OF LEANDER. 



And seems to one in drov^siness half lost. 
The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. 
December 30, 1816. 



TO KOSCIUSKO. 

Good Kosciusko ! thy great name alone 

Is a full harvest whence to reap high feeling ; 
It comes upon us like the glorious pealing 

Of the wide spheres — an everlasting tone. 

And now it tells me, that in worlds unknown. 
The names of heroes burst from clouds concealing. 
And changed to harmonies, for ever stealing 



Sinking away to his young spirit's night. 
Sinking bewildcr'd 'miil the dreary sea : 
'Tis young Leandcr toiling to his death ; 
Nigh swooning, he <loth purse his weury lips 
For Hero's cheek, and smiles against her smile. 
O horrid dream ! see how his body dips 
Dead-heavy ; arms and shoulders gleam awhile : 
He 's gone ; up bubbles all his amorous breath ! 



TO AILSA ROCK. 



Hearken, thou craggy ocean pyramid ! 
Give answer from thy voice, the sea-fowl's screams! 
When were thy shoulders maniled in huge streams? 
Through cloudless blue, and round each silver tlirone. I When, from the sun, was thy broad forehead hid ? 

603 



72 



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How long is't since the mighty power bid 

Thee heave to airy sleep from fathom dreams ? 

Sleep in the lap of thunder or sunbeams, 

Or when gray clouds are thy cold cover-lid ? 

Thou answer'st not, for thou art dead asleep ! 

Thy life is but two dead eternities — 

The last in air, the former in the deep ; 

First with the whales, last with the eagle-skies — 

Drown'd wast thou till an earthquake made thee steep. 

Another cannot wake thy giant size. 



EPISTLES. 



Among the rest a shepherd (■though but young 
Yet hartned to his pipe) with all tlie skill 
His few yeeres could, began to fit his quill. 

Britannia's Pastorals.— ^ROWiiE. 



TO GEORGE FELTON MATHEW. 

Sweet are the pleasures that to verse belong, 

And doubly sweet a brotherhood in song; 

Nor can remembrance, Mathew ! bring to view 

A fate more pleasing, a delight more true 

Than that in which the brother poels joy'd. 

Who, with combined powers, their wit employ'd 

To raise a trophy to llie drama's muses. 

The thought of this great partnership diffuses 

Over the genius-loving heart, a feeling 

Of all that's high, and great, and good, and healing. 

Too partial friend I fain would I follow thee 

Past each horizon of fine poesy ; 

Fain would I echo back each pleasant note 

As o'er Sicilian seas, clear anthems float 

'Mong the light-skimming gondolas far parted. 

Just when the sun his farewell beam has darted : 

But 'tis impossible ; far different cares 

Beckon me sternly from soft " Lydian airs," 

And hold my faculties so long in thrall, 

That I am oft in doubt whether at all 

I shall again see Phcebus in the morning; 

Or flush'd Aurora in the roseate dawning; 

Or a white Naiad in a rippling stream ; 

Or a rapt seraph in a moonlight beam ; 

Or again witness what with thee I 've seen, 

The dew by fairy feet swept from the green, 

After a night of some quaint jubilee 

Which every elf and fay had come to see : 

When bright processions took their airy march 

Beneath the curved moon's triumphal arch. 

But might I now each passing moment give 

To the coy muse, with me she would not live 

In this dark city, nor would condescend 

'Mid contradictions her delights to lend. 

Should e'er the fine-eyed maid to me be kind. 

Ah ! surely it must be whene'er I find 

Some flowery spot, sequester'd, wild, romantic, 

That often must have seen a poet frantic ; 

Where oaks, that erst the Druid knew, are growing. 

And flowers, the glory of one day, are blowing ; 

Where the dark-leaved laburnum's drooping clusters 

Reflect athwart the stream their yellow lustres, 



And intertwined the cassia's arms unite, 

With its own drooping buds, but very white. 

Where on one side are covert branches hung, 

'Mong which the pightingales have always sung 

In leafy quiet; where to pry, aloof 

Atween the pillars of the sylvan roof, 

Would be to find where violet beds were nestling. 

And where the bee with cowslip bells was wrestling 

There must be too a ruin dark, and gloomy. 

To say, " Joy not too much in all that's bloomy." 

Yet this is vain — O Mathew ! lend thy aid 
To find a place where I may greet the maid — 
Where we may soft humanity put on. 
And sit, and rhyme, and think on Chatterton ; 
And that warm-hearted Shakespeare sent to meet hita 
Four laurell'd spirits, heavenward to entreat him 
With reverence would we speak of all the sages 
Who have left streaks of light athwart their ages : 
And thou shouldst moralize on Milton's blindness. 
And mourn the fearful dearth of human kindness 
To those who strove with the bright golden wing 
Of genius, to flap away each sting 
Thrown by the pitiless world. We next could tell 
Of those who in the cause of freedom fell ; 
Of our own Alfred, of Helvetian Tell ; 
Of him whose name to every heart's a solace. 
High-minded and unbending William Wallace 
While to the rugged north our musing turns 
We well might drop a tear for him, and Burns. 
Felton! without incitements such as these, 
How vain for me the niggard Muse to tease ! 
For thee, she will thy every dwelling grace, 
And make " a sunshine in a shady place :" 
For thou wast once a floweret blooming wild. 
Close to the source, bright, pure, and undefiled. 
Whence gush the streams of song : in happy hour 
Came chaste Diana from her shady bower. 
Just as the sun was from the east uprising ; 
And, as for him some gift site was devising, 
Beheld thee, pluck'd thee, cast thee in the stream 
To meet her glorious brother's greeting beam. 
I marvel much that thou hast never told 
How, from a flower, into a fish of gold 
Apollo changed thee : how thou next didst seem 
A black-eyed swan upon the widening stream ; 
And when thou first didst in that mirror trace 
The placid features of a human face : 
That thou hast never told thy travels strange, 
And all the wonders of the mazy range 
XD'cr pebbly crystal, and o'er golden sands ; 
Kissing thy daily food from Naiad's pearly hands 
November, 1815. 



TO MV BROTHER GEORGE. 

FtTLL many a dreary hour have I past. 
My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast 
With heaviness ; in seasons when I've thought 
No sphery strains by me could e'er be caught 
From the blue dome, though 1 to dimness gaze , 
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays , 
Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely. 
Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely : 
That I should never hear Apollo's song. 
Though feathery clouds were floating all along 

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73 



The purple west, and, two bright strealis between, 

The golden lyre itself were dimly seen : 

That the still murmur of the honey-bee 

Would never teach a rural song to me : 

Tliat the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting 

Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, 

Or warm my breast with ardor to unfold 

Some tale of love and arms in time of old. 



But there are times, when those that love the bay, 

Fly from all sorrowing fir, far away ; 

A sudden glow comes on them, nauglit they see 

In water, earth, or air, but Poesy. 

It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it, 

(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it), 

That when a Poet is in such a trance. 

In air he sees white coursers paw and prance, 

Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel. 

Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel; 

And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call. 

Is the swift opening of tlieir wide portal. 

When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear. 

Whose tones reach naught on earth but poet's ear. 

When these enchanted portals open wide. 

And through the light the hoi-semen swiftly glide, 

The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, 

And view the glory of their festivals: 

Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem 

Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream ; 

Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run. 

Like the bright spots that move about tiie sun : 

And wlien upheld, the wine from each brigiit jar 

Pours with tlie lustre of a falling star. 

Yet further off, are dimly seen their bovvers. 

Of which no mortal eye can reach the flowers ; 

And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 

'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose. 

All that 's reveal'd from tliat far seat of blisses, 

Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses. 

As gracefully descending, light and tliin, 

Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, 

When he up-swimmetli from the coral caves. 

And sports with half his tail above the waves. 

These wonders strange he sees, and many more, 

Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore: 

Should he upon an evening ramble fare 

With forehead to the soothing brec/es i)are. 

Would he naught see Init the dark, silent blue. 

With all its diamonds trembling through and through T 

Or the coy moon, when in the waviness 

Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, 

And staidly paces higher up, and higher. 

Like a sweet nun in holiday attire >. 

Ah, yes ! much more would start into his sight — 

The revelries, and mys'.erics of night : 

And should I ever see them, I will tell you 

[Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you. 

I 

These aye the living pleasures of the bard: 

3ut richer far posterity's award. 

rVhat does he murmur with his latest breath, 

Vhile his proud eye looks through the film of death? 

What though I leave this dull, and earthly mould, 
I fet shall my spirit lofty converse hold 



With after-times. — ^The patriot shall feel 

My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel ; 

Or in the senate thunder out my numbers. 

To startle princes from their easy slumbers. 

The sage will mingle with each moral theme 

My happy thoughts sententious : he will teem 

With lofty i)eriods w'hen my verses fire him. 

And then I '11 stoop from heaven to inspire him. 

Lays have I left of such a dear delight 

That maids will sing them on their bridal-night 

Gay villagers, ujkjii a morn of May, 

when they have tired their gentle limbs with play 

And form'd a snowy circle on the grass. 

And placed in midst of all that lovely lass 

Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head, 

Crown'd with flowers purple, white, and red : 

For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, 

Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying : 

Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, 

A bunch of violets full-blown, and double. 

Serenely sleep : — she from a casket takes 

A little book, — and then a joy awakes 

About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries. 

And rubbing of while hands, and sparkling eyes: 

For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears; 

One that I fos(er'd in my youthful years : 

The pearls, that on each glistening circlet sleep, 

Gush ever and anon with silent creep. 

Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest 

Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast. 

Be lull'd with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu ! 

Tliy dales and hills are fading from my view : 

Swiftly I mount, upon wide-spreading pinions. 

Far from the narrow bounds of thy dominions. 

Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air. 

That my soft verse will chann thy daughters fair. 

And warm thy sons! " Ah, my dear friend and brother 

Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother. 

For tasting joys like these, sure I should be 

Happier, and dearer to society. 

At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain 

When some bright thought has darted through my 

brain: 
Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure 
Than if I had brought to light a hidden treasure. 
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them 
I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. 
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, 
Stretch'd on the grass at my best-loved employment 
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I lliought 
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. 
K"cn now, I am pillow'd on a bed of flowers. 
That crowns a lofiy difl^ which proudly lowers 
Above the ocean waves. The stalks, and blades, 
Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. 
On one side is a field of drooping oals. 
Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats^ 
So i)crt and useless, that they bring to mind 
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. 
And on the other side, outspread, is seen 
Ocean's blue mantle, streak'd with purple and green , 
Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now 
Mark the bright silver curling n)und her prow; 
I see the lark down-dropping lo his nest, 
And the broad-wing'd sea-gull never at rest; 
For when no more he spreads his feathers free, 
I His breast is dancing on the restless sex 
605 



74 



KEATS'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Now I direct my eyes into the West, 
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest : 
Why westward turn ? 'T was but to say adieu ! 
'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you! 
August, 1815. 



TO CHAKLES COWDEN CLARKE. 

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, 
And with proud breast his own white shadow crown- 

He slants his neck beneath the waters bright 

So silently, it seems a beam of light 

Come from the galaxy : anon he sports, — 

With outspread wings the INaiad Zephyr courts, 

Or ruffles all the surface of the lake 

In striving from its crystal face to talve 

Some diamond water-drops, and them to treasure 

In milky nest, and sip thein oiT at leisure. 

But not a moment c;-.n he there insure them, 

]Vor to such downy rest can he allure them ; 

For down tliey rush as though they would be free. 

And drop like hours into eternity. 

Just like that bird am I in loss of time. 

Whene'er I venture on tlie stream of rhyme ; 

With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvas rent, 

I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent ; 

Still scooping up the water with my fingers, 

In which a trembling diamond never lingers. 

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see 

\Vhy I have never penn'd a line to thee : 

Because my thoughts were never free, and clear. 

And little fit to please a classic ear ; 

Because my wine was of too poor a savor 

For one whose palate gladdens in the flavor 

Of sparkling Helicon :— small good it were 

To take him to a desert rude and bare. 

Who had on Baite's shore reclined at ease. 

While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze 

That gave soft music from Armida's bowers. 

Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers : 

Small good to one who Iiad by Mulla's stream 

Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream ; 

Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook. 

And lovely Una in a leafy nook, 

And Archiniago leaning o'er his book : 

Who had of all that's sweet, tasted, and seen, 

From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen ; 

From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania, 

To the blue dwelling of divine Urania : 

One, who, of late had la'en sweet forest walks 

With him who elegantly chats and talks — 

The wrong'd Libertas — who has told you stories 

Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo's glories; 

Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city, 

And tearful ladies, made for love and pity : 

With many else which I have never known. 

Thus have I thought ; and days on days have flown 

Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still 

For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. 

Nor should I now, but that I've known you long; 

That you first taught me all the sweets of song : 

The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine : 

What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine : 



Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, 
And float along like birds o'er summer seas : 
Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness : 
Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slender 

ness. 
Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly 
Up to its climax, and then dying proudly? 
Who found for me the grandeur of the ode. 
Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load ? 
Will) let me taste that more than cordial dram. 
The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram ? 
Show'd me that epic was of all the king. 
Round, vast, and spanning all, like Saturn's ring' 
You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, 
And pointed out the patriot's stern duty ; 
The might of Allred, and the shaft of Tell ; 
The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell 
Upon a tyrant's head. Ah ! had I never seen, 
Or known your kindness, what might I have been? 
What my enjoyments in rny youthful years, 
Bereft of all that now my life endears ? 
And can I e'er these benefits forget ? 
And can I e'er repay the friendly debt? 
No, doubly no ; — yet should these rhymings please, 
I shall roll on the grass with twofold ease ; 
For I have long time been my fancy feeding 
With hopes that you would one day think the reading 
Of my rough verses not an hour misspent ; 
Should it e'er be so, what a rich content ! 
Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires 
In lucent Thames re-elected: — warm desires 
To see the sun o'er-peep the eastern dimness, 
And morning-shadows streaking into slimness 
Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water ; 
To mark Ilie time as they grow broad and shorter j 
To feel the air that plays about the hills, 
And sips its freshness from the little rills ; 
To see high, golden corn wave in the light 
When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night, 
And peei-s among the cloudlets, jet and white. 
As though she were reclining in a bed 
Of bean-blossoms, in heaven freshly shed. 
No sooner had I slept into these pleasures. 
Than I began to think of rhymes and measures 
The air that floated by me seein'd to say 
" Write ! thou wilt never have a better day." 
And so I did. When many lines I'd written. 
Though with their grace I was not over-smitten, 
Yet, as my hand was v^arm, I thought I'd better 
Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter, 
r-'uch an attempt required an inspiration 
Of a peculiar sort, — a consummation ; — 
Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been 
Verses from which the soul would never wean; 
But many days have past since last my heart 
Was warm'd luxuriously by divine Mozart; 
By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd ; 
Or by the song of Erin pierced and sadden'd : 
What lime you were 'oefore the music sitting, 
And the rich notes to each sensation fithng. 
Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes 
That freshly terminate in open plains, 
And revell'd in a chat that ceased not, 
When, at night-fall, among your books we got: 
No, nor when supper came, nor after that, — 
Nor when reluctantly I took my hat ; 
606 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



75 



No, nor till cordially you shook my hand 
Midway between our homes : — your ac-cents bland 
Still sounded in my ears, when I no more 
Could hear your footsteps touch the gravelly floor. 
Sometimes I lost them, and then found again ; 
You changed the foot-path for the grassy plaui. 
In those still moments I jiave wish'd you joys 
That well you know to honor : — " Life's very toys 
With him," said I. "will take a pleasant charm; 
It cannot be that aught will work him harm." 
Tiiese thoughts now come o'er me with all their 

might : — 
Again I shake your hand, — friend Charles, good-night. 
ISeptembcr, 1816. 



STANZAS. 



Is a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy tree, 
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green felicity : 
45 3R 



Tlie north cannot undo them. 
With a sleety whistle through them 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighled December, 
Too hapi)y, happy brook. 
Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look ; 
But with a sweet forgetting, 
They stay their crystal fretting, 
Never, never potiing 
About the frozen time. 

Ah! would 'twere so with many 
A gentle girl and boy ! 
But v.ere there ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy ? 
To know the cliange and feel it, 
When there is none to heal it, 
Nor numbed sense to steal it, 
Was never said in rhyme. 

607 



THE END. 



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